J    ROMAN  CES    * 


C  OLONIAL    i 
DAYS  m 


GEKALDINE  BR.OOKS 


IRENE  DWEN  PACE 


putlbtng  an  &tr*fnp 
Jfox  Jfarm 


By  JAMES  OTIS,  author  of  "The  Aeroplane  at 
Silver  Fox  Farm,"  "Boy  Scouts  in  the  Maine 
\Yoods,"  etc.  Illustrated.  8vo,  cloth.  $1.50. 

The  three  boys  who  are  most  active  in  Mr. 
Otis's  fascinating  Silver  Fox  Farm  stories  are 
of  the  sort  whose  enthusi 
asm,  once  aroused,  remains 
undampened  by  any  number 
of  setbacks.  In  the  present 
book  these  energetic  young 
men,  encouraged  by  their 
distinguished  success  in 
aeroplane-building,  go  in 
for  a  full-fledged  airship. 
The  leader  and  chief  sup 
porter  of  the  enterprise  is 
the  ingenious  millionaire  of 
a  mechanical  turn.  Mr.  Sawtelle.  who  posts  the 
boys,  and  incidentally  the  reader,  on  the  correct 
method  of  constructing  a  dirigible  air-cruiser. 
During  the  course  of  one  summer,  with  the  help 
of  a  crew  of  skilled  workmen  imported  from 
Boston,  the  Silver  Fox  Farmers  put  together  an 
airship  warranted  to  carry  passengers  wherever 
their  desires  direct,  and  a  voyage  is  in  immediate 
prospect  as  the  book  ends. 

l"n fortunately  for  the  steady  progress  of  the 
future  voyagers  of  the  air.  the  old  smuggler,  John 
Fd  Bingham.  is  allowed  to  get  within  hailing  dis 
tance,  but  no  permanent  damage  results  from  his 
revengeful  acts.  The  story  is  full  of  interest,  as  a 
good,  honest  boys'  book  should  be,  and  will  add  to 
its  author's  wide  popularity  among  juvenile 
readers. 


Cfjomas  |5.  Crotoell  Company,  .fleto  Sork 


ROMANCES     OF 
COLONIAL     DAYS 

By  Geraldine   Brooks 

Author  of  "  Dames  and  Daughters    of   Colonial 
Days'1    and   "Dames  and  Daughters    of   Young 
Republic  " 


Thomas  Y.  Crowell 
Company,  Publishers 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


TO 


THE    HAPPIEST    MODERN    ROMANCE    I    HAVE    KNOWN 


.  anfc  JE.  1b.  D. 


THESE     ROMANCES    OF     COLONIAL     DATS 

ARE     AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


20401 80 


PEEFAOE. 


ONCE  a  poet  with  the  gold  of  fact  and  the 
alloy  of  his  own  fancy  fashioned  a  poem 
which  he  called  a  "Ring."  In  writing  these 
44  Romances  of  Colonial  Days  "  I  have  endeavored 
to  keep  the  poet's  "  Ring "  always  in  mind,  to 
make  them  rings  of  romance  in  which  gold  and 
alloy  each  has  its  part.  Musty  old  records,  letters, 
and  diaries  of  men  and  women  long  since  dead 
have  furnished  me  my  gold;  and  it  is  surprising 
how  much  of  gold,  facts  still  breathing  the  life, 
the  love,  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  bygone  day,  lies 
hidden  in  these  dry-looking  mines  of  history. 

In  many  of  the  "  Romances  "  the  gold  has  very 
nearly  shaped  itself  into  a  ring,  requiring  little 
help  from  the  alloy  of  fancy;  not  only  do  the 
characters  of  these  "  Romances  "  live  and  love,  joy 
and  sorrow  according  to  historic  fact,  they  even 
speak  according  to  historic  fact.  In  other  of  the 
"Romances"  there  is  less  of  gold  and  more  of 

iii 


iv  PREFACE. 

alloy.     But  in  all  of  the  "  Romances  "  some  gold 
is  visible  for  him  who  seeks  to  find  it. 

It  has  been  my  wish  by  blending  gold  and  alloy, 
fact  and  fancy,  to  fashion  rings  of  romance  that 
shall  make  real  to  us,  near  and  dear  to  us,  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  colonial  romance,  the  atmos 
phere  they  breathed,  the  time  in  which  they  lived. 
That  time,  that  atmosphere,  those  heroes  and  hero 
ines  are  not  so  far  removed  but  that  we  should  feel 
their  kinship;  and  it  is  with  the  hope  that  this 
kinship  may  be  realized  that  I  offer  these  "Ro 
mances  of  Colonial  Days." 

G.  B. 

SOMERVILLE,  MASS.,  September,  1902. 


CONTENTS 


I.  IN  MAYFLOWER  TIME  (1621) 1 

II.  BESIDE  THE  WATER-GATE  (1690) 29 

III.  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES  (1735) 39 

IV.  A  CROWN  THAT  STUNG  (1744) 61 

V.  THE  SERVING  OF  A  LAGGARD  LOVER  (1751)  .     .  82 

VI.  THE  WOOING  OF  A  GOVERNOR  (1760)  ....  96 

VII.  THE  PASSING  OF  A  SWEETHEART  (1773)     ...  108 

VIII.  A  STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCIIIANZA  (1778)   .     .     .  130 

IX.  IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GAKDEN  (1785)  ....  151 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Drawings  by  Arthur  E.  Becker 


PAOB 

JOHH  ALDEN  AND  PRISCILLA Frontispiece 

"  GOOD  DAT  TO  You,  BELLE  MARIE  " 25 

"  EVELTN,  I  WONDER  IF  YOU  WILL  EVER  LOVE  "...  54 
THUS  THE  TRAGIC  BATTLE  OF  HER  YOUNG  LIFE  WAS 

FOUGHT 73 

SHE  DID  NOT  TAKE  THE  BRIDEGROOM'S  ARM  ....  93 
THE  GOVERNOR  PROVED  A  MOST  APPRECIATIVE  AUDIENCE,  106 
SALLY  BEGAN  RUNNING  HER  FINGERS  GENTLY  OVER  THE 

KEYS 123 

"  YOU    ARE    THINKING    ME    VERY    SlLLY,    CAPTAIN    ANDRE,"       146 

"  You  FIND  ME  A  HARD  CONQUEST,  SIR  KNIGHT  "     .     .     180 


ROMANCES    OF    COLONIAL 
DAYS. 


i. 

IN   MAYFLOWER   TIME. 

ALL  day  the  labor  of  corn  planting  had  gone  on 
in  the  fields.  John  Alden,  with  the  other  able- 
bodied  men  of  the  colony,  had  been  toilsomely, 
wearyingly  employed  at  hoeing  and  at  catching 
ells,  at  fetching  corn  and  stowing  corn  and  ells 
together  in  the  freshly  ploughed  hummocks  of 
earth,  planting  as  Squanto  the  Indian  had  directed, 
after  the  manner  of  the  Indians  of  Patuxet,  orig 
inal  tillers  of  the  soil.  Now,  at  the  sunset  hour, 
he  sat  on  the  doorstep  of  his  and  the  Captain's 
house,  the  house  that  he  and  the  Captain  them 
selves  had  builded,  with  walls  of  stout  log,  a 
roof  of  thatch,  a  chimney  of  sticks  and  clay,  and 
windows  in  which  oiled  paper  served  for  glass. 
Not  yet  even  at  the  sunset  hour  was  his  day's 
work  ended.  The  wash  tubs  of  the  colony  were 
about  him  and  he  was  overhauling  them,  examin- 


2  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

ing  their  hoops  and  mending  them  where  they 
needed,  'gainst  the  colony's  next  washing  day; 
for  having  been  cooper  by  trade  in  old  England, 
he  had  not  ceased  to  be  cooper  in  New  England, 
though  now  his  coopering  was  but  a  pastime  in  a 
manifoldly  busy  life. 

His  friend  and  patron,  Miles  Standish,  the  Cap 
tain,  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  doorway  of  their  rude 
home  smoking  his  pipe  and  quietly  enjoying  the 
view  outspread  before  them.  It  was  a  fair  view, 
that  upon  which  their  cabin  looked;  the  street 
with  the  other  of  the  seven  houses  of  Plymouth 
stretching  down  to  the  beach,  then  the  long  sweep 
of  sand  with  the  massy  headlands  at  either  end, 
beyond,  the  bay  flushed  with  the  bright  yellow 
light  of  sunset,  and  the  green  heights  of  Manomet 
lifting  in  the  distance. 

Presently  John  Alden  raised  his  head  from  his 
work,  tossed  aside  the  last  tub,  and  putting  back 
his  tousle  of  tawny  hair  from  his  forehead,  filling 
his  broad  chest  with  a  long,  invigorating  breath, 
and  folding  his  hands  in  restful  fashion  behind  his 
head,  gazed  off  to  that  same  view  which  the  Cap 
tain  was  still  quietly  enjoying. 

Immediately  his  attention  was  caught  by  a  group 
of  girls  wandering  along  the  beach,  gathering  sea 
weed  as  they  went.  The  girls  were  approaching 
the  headland  at  one  end  of  the  beach,  and  as  they 
came  to  it  several  of  them  essayed  to  climb  it,  but 
all  failed  until  one,  a  slight,  lithe  figure,  with  a. 


IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME.  3 

quick  spring  and  scramble  scaled  it  and  stood  on 
its  summit,  waving  her  hands  with  triumphant  ges 
ture  to  the  girls  below. 

Just  over  Alden's  shoulder  a  low  laugh  of 
approval  sounded.  "  Well  done,"  ejaculated  the 
Captain.  "  Canst  make  out  who  she  is,  Johnny?  " 

"Mistress  Priscilla  Mullins,  if  I  mistake  not," 
answered  Alden,  with  a  positive  look  that  belied 
the  uncertainty  of  his  tone.  "  She  hath  ever  made 
it  a  ground  for  quarrel  with  Mistress  Mary  Chilton 
that  Mary,  not  she,  was  the  first  to  spring  ashore 
from  the  '  Mayflower.'  Perchance  now  she  will 
be  more  forgiving,  since  she  alone  of  all  the  maids 
hath  scaled  the  bluff."  A  light  had  come  into  the 
young  man's  face  as  he  spoke  and  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  steadfastly  upon  the  slight,  lithe  figure  sil 
houetted  against  the  sky. 

The  other  girls  went  on  up  from  the  shore,  but 
Priscilla  lingered  behind  a  moment.  Alden  fan 
cied  he  could  guess  her  thoughts  as  she  stood 
there.  She  was  facing  the  harbor  and  he  knew 
she  must  be  looking  at  the  old  anchoring  ground, 
where  once  a  dark  familiar  hulk  had  stood.  It 
was  not  many  days  ago  that  the  colonists,  a  silent, 
sorrowful  band  of  Pilgrims,  lesser  by  half  their 
number  than  those  who  had  sailed  in  the  "  May 
flower,"  had  gathered  on  the  shore  and  watched, 
through  a  blur  of  tears,  the  ship  hoist  sail,  glide 
away  to  the  offing,  and  drop,  a  white,  sunlit  speck, 
over  the  horizon.  And  now,  Alden  divined,  Pris- 


4  IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME. 

cilia  was  missing  the  "  Mayflower,"  that  last  link 
with  the  past  and  home,  and  the  dear  memories 
associated  with  home ;  the  vacant  anchoring  ground 
was  reminding  her  of  all  that  she  had  lost,  and  she 
was  thinking  of  her  father  and  mother  and  brother, 
and  the  family's  trusted  servant,  whose  graves 
were  behind  her  on  the  hillside.  Alden's  heart 
went  out  to  her  in  her  loneliness  and  desolation 
with  a  great,  self-forgetting  love. 

He  was  at  length  recalled  to  himself  and  his 
surroundings  by  the  dawning  consciousness  of 
another's  gaze,  and  glancing  up  to  where  the  Cap 
tain  sat,  he  met  the  Captain's  eyes  fixed  intently 
upon  him.  Something  in  those  eyes,  a  light  that 
was  at  once  accusing  and  sympathetically  under 
standing,  made  Alden  look  away,  and  as  he  did  so, 
the  color  slowly  mounting  to  his  cheek  glowed 
beneath  its  dark  tan,  telling  tales  upon  his  heart. 

At  sight  of  the  tell-tale  color  the  Captain  left 
his  seat,  and  coming  down  the  step  stood  before 
the  young  man,  his  short,  stocky,  military  figure 
opposing  the  other's  view,  peremptorily  demand 
ing  entire  and  immediate  attention. 

"  Johnny,"  he  declared  in  a  queer  voice,  half 
fierce,  half  tender,  "  this  dumb  show  of  ours  has 
been  going  on  long  enough.  'T  is  time  I  stopped 
playing  the  master  and  you  the  page.  Speak  out, 
boy,  tell  me  that  you  love  the  maiden." 

But  Alden's  eyes,  eyes  that  had  ever  in  their 
clear,  blue  depths  a  faithfulness  like  that  of  a 


IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME.  5 

dog's,  were  fixed  at  a  range  no  higher  than  the 
tops  of  the  Captain's  boots,  and  his  mouth  re 
mained  shut  with  an  unwonted  stubbornness  that 
intensified  the  usual  firmness  of  its  lines. 

The  Captain  made  a  quick  gesture  of  impatience. 
"  Nay,  then,"  he  exclaimed,  "  if  you  will  not  speak, 
let  your  silence  speak  for  you.  I  say  that  you  love 
Mistress  Priscilla  Mullins.  Canst  deny  it  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  elude  the  little  Captain's 
fiery  glance  for  long.  Alden  met  it  at  last  with 
a  look  of  appeal  and  protest.  "  Spare  me,  dear 
friend,"  he  cried.  "  I  meant  not  to  offend  or 
anger  you.  'T  is  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault,  that 
I  love  where  you  love.  I  had  hoped  to  hide  my 
love  from  you,  deeming  it  an  insult  to  our  friend 
ship.  But  you  have  forced  a  confession  of  it  from 
me.  And  now,  what  can  I  do  to  justify  myself  in 
your  eyes  ?  I  am  at  your  mercy,  dear  friend,  dear 
patron." 

A  puzzled,  self-accusing  frown  darkened  the 
Captain's  brow.  "  Am  I  in  very  truth  a  tyrant  ?  " 
he  inquired  gruffly,  soliloquizingly;  and  after  a 
short  pause,  "  I  will  be  a  tyrant  no  longer.  I  will 
not  stand  between  you  and  the  maiden.  Go  to 
her.  Tell  her  you  love  her."  He  was  mounting 
the  step  as  he  spoke  and  was  about  to  enter  the 
house  and  briefly,  as  was  his  fashion,  to  terminate 
the  interview.  From  the  doorway  of  the  house 
he  looked  back  affectionately,  yet  indignantly,  at 
Alden.  "  No  doubt  you  will  be  more  successful 


6  IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME. 

for  yourself  than  yon  were  for  me,"  he  added,  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "  You  with 
your  Apollo  locks  and  gospel  face  should  find  your 
way  easily  to  the  maiden's  heart,"  and  he  turned 
to  go  into  the  house. 

But  Alden  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  love 
for  the  Captain  and  a  proud  resentment  of  the 
Captain's  tone  kindling  into  a  Haze  his  usually 
tranquil  face.  "  Captain  Standish,"  he  called  after 
the  retreating  figure  in  an  authoritative  voice  that 
became  him  strangely  and  arrested  the  Captain  on 
the  threshold,  "hear  me  before  you  leave  me. 
Understand,  I  will  not  go  to  the  maiden  and  talk 
to  her  of  love.  For  you  I  have  failed.  For  my 
self  I  will  not  speak."  He  was  beside  the  Captain, 
his  hand  extended,  his  face  still  aglow  and  smiling 
bravely.  "Now  will  you  take  my  hand?"  he 
inquired. 

Touched  by  the  young  man's  words  and  even 
more  by  his  voice  and  manner,  the  Captain's  in 
dignation  and  bitterness  left  him.  He  was  all 
friendliness,  a  friendliness  that  took  the  form  of  a 
playful  severity.  He  put  out  one  hand  to  meet 
Alden' s  and  laid  the  other  hand  affectionately 
upon  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Johnny,  thou  art  an  obstinate  lad,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  would  please  me,  do  as  I  bid  you.  Go 
tell  the  maiden  that  you  love  her.  To  woo  her  is 
your  right,  not  mine  ;  for  't  is  you,  not  I,  who  love 
Priscilla.  Your  face  and  my  own  heart  tell  me  so. 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME.  7 

Only  once  in  our  lives  is  it  given  us  to  love 
deeply.  For  you  that  once  is  Priscilla.  For  me  " 
—  his  playful  severity  vanished  and  he  glanced 
sadly  toward  the  hillside  where  was  the  Pilgrims' 
burying-ground  —  "  for  me  that  once  was  Rose." 
He  ended  in  softened  voice.  Then  after  a  pause, 
looking  back  into  Alden's  face  with  a  return  of 
his  playful  severity,  he  queried,  "  Dost  understand 
me,  boy?" 

And  Alden  understood.  As  clearly  as  though 
it  had  been  written  he  read  the  story  of  the  Cap 
tain's  second  wooing.  Sympathy  and  tenderness 
for  Priscilla  in  her  lonely  state,  not  love,  he  plainly 
saw  had  prompted  the  Captain  to  make  his  suit 
to  her.  He  had  wondered  when  the  Captain 
appointed  him  his  envoy  that  a  man  could  send 
another  to  do  his  wooing  for  him.  And  he  had 
wondered,  too,  at  the  manner,  one  more  of  wounded 
pride  than  of  disappointed  love,  in  which  the  Cap 
tain  had  received  the  maid's  refusal  and  had  re 
garded  him,  his  envoy,  upon  suspicion  of  his  love 
for  the  maiden.  He  had  wondered  at  all  this,  but 
now  he  wondered  no  longer.  The  Captain  did  not 
love,  had  never  loved  Priscilla.  It  was  the  memory 
of  Rose  he  loved,  of  sweet,  fragile  Mistress  Stan- 
dish,  dearly  remembered  of  all  who  had  sailed  in 
the  "  Mayflower,"  whose  grave  was  one  of  those  so 
sadly  planted  on  the  hillside  close  by. 

With  a  look  of  infinite  sympathy  and  affection, 
and  with  a  new  gladness  at  his  heart,  Alden  an- 


8  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

swered  the  Captain :  "  Yes,  I  understand,  dear 
friend." 

Nodding  his  satisfaction,  the  Captain  drew  away 
his  hand.  "Well,  then,  sir,  go,"  he  commanded 
shortly;  and  retreating  through  the  doorway,  he 
called  back  in  smiling  raillery,  "  My  compliments 
to  the  maiden  and  my  blessing  on  your  loves." 

Alden's  gaze  rested  a  brief  space  gratefully,  lov 
ingly,  on  the  doorway  through  which  the  Captain 
had  disappeared  into  the  house.  For  the  moment 
his  thought  was  of  him,  his  friend,  and  he  gave 
thanks  that  God  had  granted  him  such  a  friend. 
Then  with  a  quick  rush  of  feeling,  the  gladness 
that  was  at  his  heart  visible  in  his  eyes,  he  turned 
from  the  doorway  and  his  thought,  his  one  thought, 
was  of  Priscilla. 

As  he  took  his  way  down  the  street  to  Elder 
Brewster's  cottage,  where  with  the  Elder  and  his 
wife  and  their  two  sons,  Love  and  Wrestling,  lived 
Priscilla  Mullins  and  Mary  Chilton  and  Elizabeth 
Tilley,  three  Puritan  maidens  orphaned  by  the 
cruelty  of  the  Puritans'  first  winter  in  New  Eng 
land,  his  one  thought  of  Priscilla,  sweetly,  enchant- 
ingly  assertive,  drove  all  else  from  his  mind.  And 
with  the  thought  came  visions  of  Priscilla ;  Pris 
cilla  laughing,  teasing,  gay,  serious,  sorrowful ; 
Priscilla  spinning ;  Priscilla  singing  psalms  ;  Pris 
cilla  fetching  water  from  the  spring;  Priscilla 
tending  the  sick  and  dying,  and  praying  over  the 
graves  of  the  dead  ;  Priscilla  in  her  many  moods, 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME.  9 

amid  the  manifoldly  sad  and  sober  scenes  of  the 
young  colony's  life. 

Chiefest  of  all  these  visions,  brighter,  more  vivid 
than  the  rest,  came  one  of  Priscilla  standing  beside 
her  father's  chair  listening  in  a  manner  part  grave, 
part  merry,  while  Alden,  addressing  himself  to  Mr. 
Mullins,  presented  the  Captain's  suit.  It  was  in 
the  late  winter,  several  weeks  before  Mr.  Mullins' 
death,  quite  some  time  ago,  that  Alden  had  gone 
on  his  delicate  mission  for  the  Captain.  Yet,  as 
clearly  as  though  it  were  yesterday,  he  remembered 
his  own  tragic  sinkings  of  heart  as  with  downcast 
eyes,  hesitatingly,  perfunctorily,  he  went  through 
his  part.  Priscilla  had  read  his  hesitations  and 
perfunctory  eloquence.  She  had  guessed  at  his 
sinkings  of  heart.  With  a  thrill  of  joy  he  recalled 
the  light  in  her  eyes  half-laughing,  half  tender, 
which  she  had  turned  upon  him  when  at  length, 
with  an  uncontrollable  sigh  of  self  pity,  he  had 
ventured  to  raise  his  glance  to  hers.  Then  she  had 
spoken,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  had  seemed  to 
open  Paradise  to  him.  "  Why  dost  thou  not  speak 
for  thyself,  John  ?  "  she  had  asked  him.  But  he 
had  not  answered,  he  had  not  entered  at  the  door 
of  Paradise  held  so  invitingly  open.  He  had 
averted  his  face  and  gone  on  his  way,  along  the 
difficult  path  of  duty,  suffering,  sorrowing ;  an  ever- 
present  vision  of  honor,  honor  in  the  military  form 
of  the  little  Captain,  had  kept  him  to  his  path.  Now 
the  vision  had  dismissed  him.  Once  more  Paradise 


10  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

was  revealed  to  him.  He  might  knock  at  the  door 
—  would  it  open  to  him  ?  He  might  speak  for  him 
self  —  would  Priscilla  hear  him  ?  His  question 
became  a  prayer,  and  in  the  spirit  of  a  reverential 
lover  he  approached  the  Elder's  house. 

He  mounted  the  doorstep  of  the  house  and  stood 
a  moment  on  the  threshold,  looking  in.  Priscilla 
was  not  there.  Yet  her  presence  seemed  to  per 
vade  the  place.  Her  spinning-wheel  in  the  corner, 
the  chair  in  which  she  often  sat,  her  prayer-book 
lying  open  on  the  table,  other  and  various  things 
associated  with  her  spoke  to  the  young  man  subtly, 
eloquently,  in  a  language  which  the  heart  alone 
understands. 

From  the  loft  above  came  sounds  of  talk  and 
laughter,  the  talk  and  laughter  of  girls,  and  in  a 
moment  Mary  Chilton  and  Elizabeth  Tilley  ap 
peared  at  the  head  of  the  stairway  leading  from 
the  loft  to  the  living-room  below.  At  sight  of 
Alden  standing  on  the  threshold,  Elizabeth,  a  young, 
pert  maiden,  called  out  saucily,  "  Art  looking  for 
Priscilla,  John  Alden  ?  She 's  not  here." 

But  Mary,  who  was  older,  graver,  kinder  than 
Elizabeth,  came  down  and  talked  with  Alden  of 
the  warm  weather,  of  the  sailing  of  the  "  May 
flower,"  of  the  coming  of  spring  with  its  birds  and 
its  flowers,  of  the  sowing  of  the  fields.  Briefly  and 
quietly  she  spoke  and  at  last,  standing  by  the 
window  and  looking  out,  with  careful  carelessness 
she  observed,  "  Priscilla  is  long  in  returning.  She 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME.  11 

should  be  home  by  now.  See,  the  sun  is  past  set 
ting  and  the  twilight  is  falling  and  fading  fast. 
The  Elder  hath  often  told  us  'tis  not  safe  for  a 
maid  to  go  about  alone  after  sundown.  But  Pris- 
cilla  laughs  at  all  cautious.  She  is  too  fearless. 
If  you  are  going  by  the  brook  road,  whither  she 
hath  gone,  and  should  see  her,  John  Alden,  will 
you  not  send  her  home  ?  She  shall  be  scolded  by 
me,  her  little  mother,  as  she  calls  me,  for  being  a 
most  rash  and  reckless  maid." 

"  I  will  find  the  truant,  little  mother,  and  bring 
her  home  to  you,"  John  Alden  answered,  and  his 
eyes  thanked  Mary  Chilton  for  her  kind  heart  and 
gentle  manner. 

Leaving  the  Elder's  cottage  and  going  down  the 
hill  to  the  brookside,  John  Alden  found  himself 
repeating,  more  appreciatively,  more  fervently  than 
ever  before,  the  joyous  words  from  the  beautiful 
old  Song  of  Songs  : 

"  Lo,  the  winter  is  past, 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone, 
The  flowers  appear  on  the  earth ; 
The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come, 
And  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land." 

His  heart  was  attuned  to  the  words  of  the  song. 
He  looked  at  the  springing  greenness  about  him, 
listened  to  the  softly  blended  harmonies  of  brook 
and  birds  and  rustling  trees,  inhaled  the  refreshing 
scents  of  the  earth's  new  life,  and  lifting  his  face 


12  IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME. 

to  the  mild  April  wind,  rejoiced  that  the  world  was 
fair,  that  he  himself  was  young,  that  life  and  labor 
and  love  were  before  him.  He  forgot  the  winter, 
its  cold  privation,  suffering,  and  death.  In  a  glad 
abandon  of  the  spirit,  that  accorded  with  the  new 
spring-time,  he  gave  himself  to  dreams  of  the  fu 
ture,  hopes,  and  promises ;  and  the  dreams,  the 
hopes,  and  promises  all  centred  about  the  maiden 
Priscilla. 

At  length,  like  the  realization  of  his  dreams,  an 
answer  to  his  hopes  and  promises,  the  figure  of  the 
maiden,  indistinct  in  the  gathering  dusk,  was  re 
vealed  to  him.  He  had  crossed  the  brook  and  was 
mounting  the  rise  of  ground  on  the  further  side. 
He  saw  Priscilla  standing  on  the  summit,  the  gray 
of  her  Puritan  cloak  detaching  itself  conspicuously 
from  the  dark  green  of  the  pine  forest  that  was  be 
hind  her.  The  nearness  of  the  forest  made  her 
appear  the  child  of  the  wilderness  that  she  was. 

A  rush  of  tenderness  went  over  Alden  as  he  looked 
at  her,  tenderness  for  her  in  her  loneliness,  and  a 
longing  for  the  right  to  comfort  and  protect  her. 
He  ascended  the  slope  quietly,  and  coming  near 
her,  stood  still  and  spoke  her  name. 

Priscilla,  surprised  by  his  voice,  turned  quickly 
to  him.  "  John  Alden,  you  unmannerly  lad  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Why  do  you  come  upon  me  thus 
stealthily,  like  a  wolf  or  an  Indian  seeking  prey  ? 
Dost  wish  to  fright  me  ?  " 

The  scant  welcome  of  her  words  did  not  discon- 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME.  13 

cert  Alden.  He  met  it  with  unabashed  tranquillity. 
He  had  learned  not  to  mind  Priscilla's  playful 
scolding,  but  to  love  it  rather  as  a  part  of  Pris 
cilla's  self,  as  much  and  as  distinctive  a  part  as 
her  French  ancestry,  or  her  dark  hair  or  darker 
eyes. 

"I  think  I  could  not  fright  you  if  I  would, 
Priscilla,"  he  answered.  "  You  are  a  fearless 
maid.  I  have  known  you  for  such  ever  since  I 
have  known  you.  And  Mary  knows  you  for  such. 
Indeed,  Mary  is  anxious  for  you  on  account  of 
your  fearlessness  and  hath  sent  me  as  ambassador 
to  fetch  you  home." 

"  And  if  I  have  no  mind  to  be  fetched  home  ? " 
Priscilla  regarded  the  young  man  archly,  teasingly 
and  with  a  baffling  laugh  seated  herself  upon  a 
fallen  tree-trunk  near  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 
There  she  sat  much  as  though  it  were  her  inten 
tion  to  remain  there  always. 

Alden  immediately  seated  himself  on  the  ground 
not  far  from  her.  "Then  will  I  wait  until  you 
undergo  a  change  of  mind,"  he  announced  calmly, 
determinately. 

Priscilla  laughed  softly  to  herself.  "  You  make 
an  excellent  ambassador,  Master  Alden,"  she  com 
mented  in  lightly  mocking  tone. 

Alden  glanced  quickly  at  the  maiden.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  in  her  words  there  lurked  a  delicately 
veiled  reminder  of  that  other  time  when  he  had 
come  as  ambassador  to  her,  and  he  searched  her 


14  IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME. 

face  in  the  dim  light,  thinking  that  perchance  he 
might  find  there  the  reminder  verified.  But  her 
face  told  him  nothing.  It  wore  a  mask  of  smiling 
unconcern. 

A  barrier  was  dividing  her  from  him,  hiding  her 
thoughts  from  his  understanding,  —  a  barrier  that 
his  own  conscience  had  raised  when  it  forbade  his 
speaking  for  himself.  Now  his  conscience  no 
longer  forbade.  He  was  impatient  to  break  down 
the  barrier. 

"I  make  a  very  poor  ambassador,"  he  said, 
seriously,  in  answer  to  her  laughing  comment  of 
a  moment  before ;  and  after  an  expressive  pause, 
"  I  say  so,  thinking  of  the  Captain  and  the  part  I 
played  for  him ; "  and  after  another  expressive 
pause,  "Priscilla,  the  Captain  is  our  friend  once 
more.  He  has  forgiven  you  your  answer  and  me 
my  poor  ambassadorship."  Alden  spoke  briefly, 
jerkily,  but  his  voice  was  charged  with  meaning 
and  deep  feeling. 

Priscilla  did  not  answer.  Better  than  words, 
however,  her  silence  told  him  that  she  understood. 

They  began  talking  of  indifferent  things.  Love 
was  not  mentioned  between  them,  yet  the  intona 
tions  of  their  voices,  their  looks,  the  pauses  that 
now  and  then  fell  between  them  spoke  only  of 
that  one  thing. 

The  moon  rose  while  they  talked,  and  the  steel 
blue  of  the  sky  changed  to  gray.  Lights  flashed 
out  from  the  little  log  cabin  settlement  below  them. 


IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME.  15 

They  could  see  the  dark  curve  of  the  shore  and 
the  gleam  of  the  water  beyond.  But  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  there  was  no  sight  of  ships  on  the 
sea,  or  farther  than  the  one  street  of  Plymouth,  no 
sight  of  houses  on  the  shore.  Saving  only  the 
moon  and  the  lights  of  the  little  settlement,  they 
were  alone  in  the  wilderness.  But  their  alone- 
ness  was  sweet  to  them ;  and  this,  because  there 
was  no  longer  any  barrier  dividing  them.  They 
were  together.  Both  were  feeling  keenly,  ex 
quisitely,  the  weight  of  their  nearness  to  one 
another. 

They  talked  of  England  and  of  the  friends  that 
they  had  left  there,  of  the  new  home  and  of  the 
friends  who  had  come  thither  only  to  find  graves 
waiting  them  on  the  hillside.  They  spoke  of 
sorrow,  but  reminiscentially,  as  though  sorrow 
were  of  the  past,  not  of  the  present  or  future. 

Priscilla  put  her  hand  to  her  bodice  and  drew 
forth  a  bunch  of  delicately  fragrant  blossoms,  which 
she  handed  to  John  Alden. 

"  Look  !  "  she  said.  "  I  was  feeling  lonely  and 
sad  this  afternoon,  when  I  happened  upon  these 
pretty  pink  flowers.  The  woods  where  I  found 
them  were  sweet  with  them.  Smell  them  !  Are 
they  not  fragrant  ?  Didst  ever  see  any  like  them 
in  old  England,  John?  No;  nor  did  I.  I  think 
they  must  have  been  invented  especially  for  us, 
Pilgrims  in  a  strange  land,  to  welcome  us,  to  give 
us  hope  and  courage." 


16  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

Alden  looked  from  the  flowers  to  the  maiden's 
face,  smiling.  "  'T  is  a  pretty  thought,  Priscilla, 
and  worthy  of  you.  Already  you  make  me 
love  the  little  blossoms.  They  seem  to  be 
whispering  rosy  promises  of  a  new  life,  a  new 
home,  a  new  love.  Canst  hear  their  whispering, 
Priscilla  ?  " 

He  gave  the  flowers  back  into  her  hand,  and 
his  own  hand  having  found  hers  could  not  leave  it, 
but  stayed  clasping  it  and  speaking  to  it  the  new, 
strange,  immeasurably  sweet  language  of  love. 
And  her  hand  did  not  leave  his,  but  rested  in  it  as 
though  there  it  had  found  its  natural  dwelling 
place.  There  needed  no  question  to  be  asked  or 
answered  between  them,  save  that  of  the  hands 
and  the  eyes ;  and  their  first  kiss  was  given 
and  taken  without  a  word,  in  the  silence  of  the 
spring  night,  the  forest  behind  them,  and  before 
them  the  sea  rolling  its  solemn  monotone  on  the 
shore.  The  spirit  of  the  forest  and  of  the  sea 
entered  into  their  love,  making  it  a  tiling  deep, 
lasting,  infinite. 

When  at  length  they  came  down  upon  the 
street  and  neared  the  Elder's  cottage,  they  found 
the  Elder  and  his  wife  sitting  on  the  doorstep, 
and  Mary  Chilton,  her  fair  hair  lit  into  a  glow 
from  the  candlelight  within,  standing  behind  the 
Elder  and  his  wife  and  leaning  against  the  door 
post. 

At  the  approach  of  the  two  laggard  ones,  Mary 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME.  17 

remarked  in  gentle  raillery,  "  So  you  have  brought 
the  truant  home,  John  Alden,  —  or  should  I  say  the 
two  truants,  for  are  not  you  a  truant  yourself, 
John,  when  you  are  so  late  returning  ?  And  did 
you  fear  the  colony  might  send  a  second  ambassa 
dor  to  fetch  you  both  home  that  you  have  come  at 
last?" 

John  Alden  did  not  answer.  This  was  not  so 
strange,  for  Alden  was  habitually  a  silent  man. 
But  neither  did  Priscilla  answer.  And  this  was 
stranger,  for  Priscilla  was  ever  ready  with  her 
tongue,  even  to  the  point  of  pertness.  Both  only 
laughed,  and  a  new  note  sounded  in  their  voices,  a 
note  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  detected  by 
other  than  themselves. 

Alden  stopped  a  moment  at  the  cottage  to  ex 
change  a  few  words  with  the  Elder  about  the 
sowing  to  go  forward  the  next  day,  and  about  the 
probability  of  continued  warm  weather. 

Priscilla,  leaving  Alden's  side,  went  up  the  step 
and  into  the  house.  As  she  passed  through  the 
doorway,  Mary  caught  her  hand  and  with  a  whis 
pered  word,  followed  her  into  the  house. 

From  his  station  without  by  the  window, 
looking  into  the  candlelit  room,  Alden  was 
able  to  witness  all  that  took  place  between  the 
friends.  He  saw  Priscilla,  shyly  laughing  and 
protesting,  draw  away  from  Mary  and  then, 
grown  suddenly  grave,  go  back  to  her,  put  her 
arm  about  her,  and  kiss  her,  and  immediately 


18  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

breaking   from  her,  vanish   up  the   stairway  into 
the  darkness  above. 

Alderi  understood  the  meaning  of  the  little 
scene,  and  with  a  happy  catch  of  the  heart  re 
minded  himself  that  his  great  happiness  was  no 
dream,  but  a  reality ;  that  it  was  true  he  and  Pris- 
cilla  were  sweethearts,  promised  sweethearts. 

He  left  the  Elder's  cottage  and  went  on  up  the 
street  to  the  Captain's  house,  the  house  that  was 
his  home  as  well  the  Captain's,  his  home  until  — 
and  again  he  was  conscious  of  a  happy  catch  at  his 
heart —  until  he  should  make  a  new  home. 

He  found  the  Captain  seated  by  a  table  reading. 
He  went  and  stood  beside  his  chair,  looking  down 
at  him  and  at  the  book  that  he  was  reading.  The 
book,  he  saw,  was  the  Captain's  favorite,  "  Caesar's 
Commentaries." 

The  Captain,  though  aware  of  his  coming,  did 
not  glance  up  at  him,  but  straightway  burst  forth 
into  praises  of  the  man  of  whom  he  was  reading ; 
his  wisdom,  his  valor,  his  greatness.  In  his  enthu 
siasm  over  Caius  Julius  Caesar,  he  quite  forgot 
John  and  Priscilla  and  love,  general  and  particular. 

Alden  answered  his  enthusiasm  quietly,  agree 
ing  with  him  in  all  things,  and  when  at  length 
the  Captain's  praises  had  run  their  course  and 
a  pause  followed,  he  remarked :  "  I  have  obeyed 
you,  dear  Captain.  I  am  returned  from  doing  your 
bidding." 

The  words,  and   something   in   the  voice    that 


IN  MAYFLOWER   TIME,  19 

spoke  them,  made  the  Captain  look  up  at  last. 
Immediately  he  saw  and  understood  the  eloquence 
of  the  face  bending  over  him.  lie  was  on  his 
feet.  John  Alden's  hand  was  held  in  a  clasp  so 
vigorous  that  it  pained.  The  two  men  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Johnny ! "  was  all  the  Captain  said.  But  it 
•was  enough. 

John  Alden  and  Priscilla  married.  Every  one 
knows  that.  They  lived  long  and  were  happy,  and 
their  home  was  on  Duxbury  Hill  near  to  another 
home  that  was  the  Captain's.  Sons  and  daughters 
rose  up  about  them,  some  reflecting  the  fair  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  slow,  tranquil  nature  of  the  father, 
others  the  dark  eyes  and  hair  and  the  quick,  gay, 
impulsive  nature  of  the  mother.  One  fancies  these 
sons  and  daughters  of  John  and  Priscilla  Alden 
beautiful  and  noble  as  the  sons  and  daughters  of  a 
deep,  lasting,  infinite  love  should  be. 

Of  course  these  sons  and  daughters,  in  their 
turn,  found  the  Mayflower,  listened  to  its  whisper 
ings,  and  married  as  their  father  and  mother  had 
done  before  them.  One  of  them,  a  daughter, —  she 
who  was  most  like  her  mother,  no  doubt,  —  mar 
ried  the  Captain's  son.  Hers  was  the  marriage 
most  pleasing  to  her  parents.  They  felt  that  in 
giving  her  to  the  Captain's  son  they  were  paying 
in  part  the  great  debt  of  gratitude  that  they  owed 
their  friend  Myles  Standish. 


20  IN  MAYFLOWER    TIME. 

The  Mayflower  blooms  in  other  parts  of  our  land 
than  in  the  Plymouth  woods.  But  nowhere,  it  is 
said,  does  it  bloom  in  such  pristine  loveliness  as 
there.  It  is  as  though  the  love  of  John  Alden  and 
Priscilla,  a  love  that  has  become  a  beautiful  classic 
in  the  romance  of  our  land,  had  entered  for  a 
moment  into  the  soul  of  the  flower  and  left  with 
it  the  secret  of  its  divine  essence. 


n. 

BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

IT  was  an  afternoon  in  late  autumn  of  the  year 
1690.  A  blustering  wind  from  the  sea  was  blow 
ing  over  the  little  Dutch  town  of  New  Amsterdam, 
New  York  the  city  had  been  newly  dighted  some 
score  of  years  before,  but  the  loyal  burghers  had 
not  yet  learned  to  give  the  English  title  except 
with  sorry  grace;  the  spiteful  little  monosyllable 
stuck  in  their  throats  and  never  came  without  an 
angry  sputter. 

The  wind  that  blew  so  boisterously  that  autumn 
afternoon  was  a  contentious  wind.  It  upset  boxes 
and  barrels  in  the  region  of  the  docks ;  it  rattled 
the  doors  and  windows  of  the  low,  gable-roofed, 
high-stooped  houses  that  stretched  along  the  Strand 
and  the  Heeren  Gracht  and  the  wide  sweep  of 
Broadway ;  and  it  caught  up  and  drove  before  it, 
along  the  thoroughfares  and  byways,  an  army  of 
hectic  leaves  —  russet,  gold,  and  vivid  red.  It  was 
as  though  the  wind  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
city,  a  spirit  of  war. 

The  wind  rattled  the  windows  of  the  council 
chamber  at  the  fort.  But  those  within  minded  it 
not.  They  were  occupied  with  other  matter  than 

21 


22  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

that  of  the  wind.  The  room  declared  the  business 
in  which  they  were  engaged.  It  was  cluttered 
with  arms,  ammunition,  harnesses,  and  provisions. 
There  was  the  noise  of  many  voices  clamoring, 
haranguing,  and  disputing. 

At  his  table,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  one 
calm  rock  of  strength  in  all  that  seething  current 
of  restlessness,  uncertainty,  and  dissatisfaction,  sat 
the  people's  governor,  Mynheer  Jacob  Leisler. 
Gravely  silent,  he  listened  with  a  steady  patience 
to  the  many  who  came  reporting  news,  more 
often  bad  than  good,  and  services,  more  often 
unsuccessful  than  successful,  presenting  petitions, 
and  recounting  grievances.  Only  an  occasional 
deepening  of  the  furrows  in  his  brow  and  a  con 
vulsive  tightening  of  the  large  fist  resting  on  the 
table  before  him  gave  proof  of  the  weariness  and 
perplexity  that  assailed  the  inner  man. 

The  signs  of  weariness  and  perplexity,  though 
unnoticed  by  the  many,  were  not  lost  upon  a  cer 
tain  one  in  that  long  file  of  deputies,  petitioners, 
and  complainants,  to  whom  Mynheer  was  giving 
audience.  This  one,  more  observant  than  the  rest, 
having  despatched  his  business,  went  away  thought 
ful  and  troubled.  Leaving  the  fort,  he  turned  his 
steps  down  the  Broad  Way,  moving  slowly  and 
with  a  serious,  preoccupied  air  that  contrasted 
strangely  with  his  boyish  looks.  He  gave  no  heed 
to  the  passers-by ;  but  they  gave  much  to  him. 

"  'Tis  the  clerk  of  the  town,  yt>ung  Gouveneur," 


BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE.  23 

remarked   a   portly,  pompous  citizen  to  his   com 
panion. 

"  Humph ! "  ejaculated  the  other,  more  portij 
and  pompous  than  the  first.  "  He  who  was  once 
Leisler's  pot-boy?  A  fine  management  of  affairs 
this,  when  such  as  he  are  in  the  counsels  of  the 
government." 

"  Oh,  the  Yonker  is  not  so  bad.  He  is  of  gentle 
blood,  't  is  said,  the  son  of  a  brave  Huguenot  sol 
dier.  Note  you  his  features  and  his  bearing  ?  See 
you  the  French  in  them  ?  " 

"  Aye,  he  is  French  enough  in  spite  of  his  Dutch 
coat  and  breeches.  But  French  or  Dutch  I  like 
him  not,  since  he  is  of  the  riotous  band  commanded 
by  that  rebel  and  traitor  at  the  fort." 

"  Hist !  Have  a  care  how  you  call  names  him 
who  is  still  a  mighty  power  in  the  city." 

"  I  fear  not  Leisler.     His  day  is  almost  done." 

"  Look  you,"  said  one  round-eyed,  rosy-cheeked 
Dutch  maiden  to  another.  "Is  not  that  a  hand 
some  Yonker  over  yonder?" 

"  Waste  not  your  sighs  on  him.  'T  is  Abram 
Gouveneur.  He  has  no  eyes  for  us,  nor  for  any 
maid  however  fair,  saving  only  the  daughter  of  the 
Heer  Governor." 

"  Mary  Leisler,  mean  you  ?  She  and  the  hand 
some  Yonker  are  sweethearts,  then  ?  " 

"  Aye,  and  have  been  ever  since  childhood. 
They  were  always  together,  Abram  being  a  sort  of 
ward  of  Mynheer  Leisler.  He  and  his  mother 


24  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

came  to  this  colony  as  pauper  refugees,  't  is  said, 
and  would  have  been  sold  to  pay  their  passage 
fees,  had  it  not  been  for  Mynheer's  kindness." 

"  So  ?     Tell  me,  what  did  Mynheer  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  did  even  pay  the  passage  fees  himself, 
deeming  it  a  foul  indignity  that  people  of  such 
gentle  blood  as  the  boy  Abram  and  his  mother 
should  be  sold  like  to  any  common  felons." 

"'Twas  like  Mynheer.  One  is  ever  hearing 
proofs  of  his  goodness  and  generosity." 

"  Yes ;  and  in  tins  case  his  goodness  and  gener 
osity  were  not  misplaced,  it  seems.  There  's  not 
a  finer  Yonker  in  all  the  province  than  Abram 
Gouveneur.  See  what  the  people  think  of  him ! 
They  have  made  him  clerk  of  the  town." 

"  'T  is  a  high  office  for  so  young  a  man.  The 
Yonker  must  be  as  clever  as  he  is  handsome." 

Thus  they  discoursed  about  him,  some  censur 
ing  and  some  approving,  by  their  talk  disclosing 
their  own  politics  whether  Leislerian  or  anti- 
Leislerian. 

Meanwhile,  he  about  whom  they  talked  went  on 
his  way,  quite  unconscious  of  the  comment  he  was 
occasioning.  As  he  came  to  the  Strand  his  face 
brightened  and  he  quickened  his  pace.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  thoughts  that  troubled  him,  it 
was  evident  he  had  banished  them  for  matter  of 
more  agreeable  reflection. 

Arrived  at  a  certain  house  on  the  Strand,  he 
entered  by  the  side  gateway.  With  a  few  quick 


•GOOD    DAY  TO   YOU,  BELLE   MARIE." 


BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE.  25 

bounds,  he  mounted  the  back  stoop  and,  leaning 
over  the  open  half  door,  looked  in  upon  the 
kitchen. 

Then,  as  ever,  that  kitchen  presented  a  scene 
of  thrift  and  tidiness.  The  furniture  looked 
freshly  polished,  the  hearth  tiles  freshly  stained. 
The  pots  and  pans  upon  the  shelf  above  the  fire 
place  flashed  like  new,  and  the  blue  and  white 
Delft  ware  in  the  corner  cupboard  shone  with  the 
brightness  of  a  recent  and  very  vigorous  wiping. 
The  floor  had  been  scrubbed  to  the  perfection  of 
cleanliness,  and  Mary  Leisler,  her  arms  bared  and 
her  skirts  tucked  up,  was  sprinkling  it  with  sand 
and  then,  with  rapid,  skilful  strokes  of  her  broom, 
marking  a  border  of  elaborate  pattern  around  the 
room.  The  sunlight,  streaming  in  through  the 
high  window  above  the  chimney  corner,  fell  on  the 
girl's  golden  hair,  only  half  concealed  by  the  little 
Dutch  cap  that  she  wore,  making  it  the  most 
radiant  spot  in  all  that  radiant  room. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  belle  Marie." 

At  sound  of  Abram's  voice,  sudden  and  unex 
pected,  there  was  a  slight  ruffling  of  the  girl's 
Dutch  calm,  the  suggestion  of  a  start,  and  a  faint 
deepening  of  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  "  Why, 
Ab'm,  lad,  how  you  did  startle  me ! "  she  declared 
in  soft,  even  tones. 

Putting  aside  sand-box,  and  broom,  she  came 
towards  him,  and  opening  wide  the  half  door  would 
have  had  him  enter,  but  Abram  shook  Ids  head. 


26  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

"  I  must  not  spoil  your  lovely  scroll-work  with 
my  clumsy  tread,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  pattern 
in  the  sand.  "  Come  you  with  me  instead.  See 
how  the  sunlight  beckons  from  the  meadows  in  the 
Madge  Padge  yonder." 

He  looked  off  toward  the  meadows  and  then  into 
the  girl's  eyes,  with  smiling  invitation  in  his  glance. 
He  had  hoped  to  see  his  smile  reflected  in  those 
eyes,  but  instead  he  read  a  new  seriousness  in  their 
clear,  blue  depths. 

Mary  shook  her  head,  hesitating.  She  seemed 
to  be  searching  her  mind  for  an  objection  to  his 
proposition.  "  'T  is  a  windy  day  for  walking,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"  Windy,  say  you  ?  Well,  what  of  that  ?  Have 
we  not  faced  the  wind  before,  Marie,  you  and  I 
together?"  He  was  still  smiling  and  she  still 
serious. 

"  The  mother  is  out,"  continued  Mary,  having 
bethought  her  of  another  objection.  "  When  she 
returns  and  finds  me  gone,  she  will  wonder,  perhaps 
worry." 

"  You  have  only  to  speak  to  the  children.  They 
have  tongues.  They  can  tell  her  whither  you 
have  gone." 

"  The  children  !  There  again !  They  should 
not  be  left  alone." 

"  Oh,  Marie,  give  the  children  a  holiday.  And 
give  me  one  as  well."  Then  after  a  moment's 
pause  and  forethought  that  made  his  pleading  all 


BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE.  27 

the  more  emphatic,  "  So  long  is  it  since  you  and 
I  have  taken  one  of  our  old-time  walks  together," 
he  declared.  "  So  ardently  have  I  set  my  heart  on 
this  particular  walk  to-day.  Surely,  Marie,  you 
will  not  say  me  nay." 

There  was  an  elusive  showing  of  a  smile  in  her 
eyes  and  of  dimples  in  her  cheeks,  as  she  looked 
up  at  him.  "  You  were  ever  a  wicked  tempter, 
Ab'm,"  she  said,  pushing  him  gently  from  her 
with  a  frown  of  disapproval.  She  spoke  fondly, 
a  little  sadly.  "  I  do  wrong  to  listen  to  you,"  and 
she  turned  from  him  as  though  to  end  the  matter. 
Then,  the  next  moment,  with  that  delightful  in 
consistency  which  is  said  to  be  distinctly  feminine, 
she  went  and  put  on  her  hood  and  long  coat. 

Certain  it  was,  however,  that  an  unusual  mood 
had  taken  possession  of  Mary  that  afternoon. 
Abram  missed  her  sunny  looks,  her  merry  chatter, 
and  her  light-hearted  laughter.  As  they  walked 
side  by  side  along  the  winding  Strand,  through 
the  half-ruined  Water-Gate,  and  out  into  the 
open  country  that  stretched  beyond  the  city  wall, 
he  regarded  her  wonderingly,  a  little  anxiously. 
What  had  come  over  her  ?  Why  was  she  so  grave 
and  uncommunicative  ?  He  must  know  the  reason 
of  this  new  seriousness. 

They  had  been  talking  at  random  and  with  fre 
quent  pauses  in  their  conversation.  Suddenly 
Abram  broke  out  tentatively  and  as  if  to  himself, 
"  Little  red  hood,  I  am  glad  that  you  came." 


28  BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE. 

"  'T  is  an  old  friend,  this  little  red  hood,"  the 
owner  of  the  hood  made  answer. 

"  Yes,  and  therefore  am  I  glad  it  came,  else 
might  I  feel  myself  in  strange  company." 

"  You  find  me  strange  company  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"So?" 

The  short  monosyllable  spoken  with  rising  in 
flection  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

"  You  are  so  serious.  Hardly  do  I  know  you  for 
my  old-time  merry  playfellow." 

Mary  did  not  answer  immediately.  They  had 
crossed  the  stream  that  flowed  through  the  Madge 
Padge,  what  is  now  Maiden  Lane,  but  what  was 
then  a  pretty  little  dell,  shaded  by  birch  and 
willow,  which  the  Dutch  maids  and  matrons  used 
for  laundry  purposes.  They  had  climbed  the  hill 
that  rose  beyond  the  Madge  Padge.  And  they 
had  come  to  a  grove  of  ash  and  maple  interspersed 
with  hemlock,  a  pleasant  spot  that  had  been  the 
scene  of  many  of  their  childhood's  happy  playtimes. 
Unconsciously,  as  though  by  habit,  their  steps  had 
led  them  thither. 

Mary  seated  herself  upon  a  fallen  tree  trunk  and 
Abram  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet. 
The  wind  sighed  through  the  branches  above  them ; 
the  voice  of  the  brook  rising  from  the  valley  below 
spoke  to  them  in  plaintive  note ;  and  the  dead 
leaves  fluttered  and  fell  about  them,  gentle  remind 
ers  of  the  changefulness  of  seasons  and  of  time. 


BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE.  29 

To  Abrara,  impressionable,  imaginative,  it  seemed 
that  nature  was  whispering  forebodings.  And  as 
he  gazed  upward  at  Mary,  this  sense  of  whispered 
forebodings  was  not  lessened.  She  sat  with  her 
hands  clasped  rather  stiffly  in  her  lap.  Her  long 
coat,  dark  green  like  the  green  of  the  hemlock,  fell 
about  her,  touching  the  ground  on  either  side. 
Strands  of  her  bright  gold  hair  escaped  from  the 
hood  were  blown  across  her  cheek  and  forehead, 
and  her  eyes  looked  forth  in  dreamy  scrutiny  upon 
the  further  bank  of  the  broad,  tranquil-flowing 
river,  where  the  Palisades  towered  in  purple  splen 
dor  against  the  sunset  sky.  Her  thoughts,  it  ap 
peared,  had  gone  wandering.  Indeed,  she  might 
have  been  some  woodland  fairy,  a  dryad  of  the 
grove,  so  strange  she  seemed,  so  unreal,  so  remote. 

"  Your  merry  old-time  playfellow,  she  is  gone," 
she  said  at  last,  soberly,  in  answer  to  his  remark  of 
several  moments  before,  —  "gone  forever.  Expect 
not  to  find  this  other  who  has  taken  her  place  as 
full  of  fun  and  frolic  as  was  she."  Then  with  a 
downward  glance  at  Abram  and  in  a  lighter  tone, 
"  Think  you  I  would  see  lads  such  as  you,  Ab'm, 
and  my  torment  of  a  brother,  Jacob,  Jr.,  growing 
old  and  staid  and  remain  the  same  rattle-pated 
maid  of  former  days  ?  "  she  inquired. 

In  spite  of  the  lightness  of  her  tone,  her  eyes  were 
still  full  of  the  new  seriousness,  a  sad  and  troubled 
seriousness,  that  brought  an  answering  tenderness 
into  Abram's  eyes. 


30  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

"Nay,  Marie,"  he  cried,  and  he  spoke  with  the 
unreasoning  chivalry  of  a  young  lover.  "  Keep 
young,  keep  happy,  keep  merry.  Leave  the  grow 
ing  old  and  the  sober  thinking,  as  the  hard  fight 
ing,  to  us  lads." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  " '  T  is  like  you,  Ab'rn,  to 
speak  so,"  she  said.  "  You  were  ever  too  generous 
with  me.  But  you  are  wrong.  Even  though  I  be 
a  maid,  I  must  bear  my  part  in  the  struggle.  Else 
would  I  be  an  unworthy  friend  to  you,  an  unworthy 
daughter  to  my  father." 

There  was  a  silence  of  several  seconds  between 
them,  during  which  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees  and  the  plaintive  voice  of  the  brook  were  the 
only  sounds  that  broke  the  stillness.  Then  Mary 
spoke  again,  quietly  but  with  enthusiasm  in  her  tone. 
"  Oh,  Ab'm,  if  you  but  knew  how  often  I  have 
wished  myself  a  lad  like  you,  that  I  might  give  my 
service,  mayhap  my  life,  to  the  aid  of  my  father 
and  for  the  people's  cause  ! "  and  after  a  short  pause, 
"Ab'm,  how  seems  my  father  to  you?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

Abram's  eyes  fell  to  the  ground  beneath  her 
searching  glance.  The  serious,  troubled  look  that 
had  been  upon  his  face  when  he  left  the  fort  re 
turned.  But  he  answered  with  an  assumption  of 
cheerfulness,  "As  brave  and  indomitable  as  ever, 
Marie." 

"  They  say  his  enemies  are  increasing,"  Mary 
remarked  sadly ;  "  that  his  friends  are  falling  off  ; 


BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE.  31 

that  his  day  will  soon  be  done.  They  call  him 
rebel  and  tyrant,  a  peace  breaker,  a  butcher,  a 
brawler  —  other  and  more  dreadful  names."  Her 
voice  broke.  "  Ab'm,"  she  appealed,  more  as  one 
asking  comfort  than  as  one  in  need  of  assurance, 
"  you  are  still  true  to  him,  still  loyal  ?  " 

Abram  flung  up  his  head  and  looked  into  the 
girl's  face,  his  own  face  all  aflame  with  the  emotion 
which  he  had  been  so  long  repressing,  "  You  know 
that  I  would  die  for  him  —  for  you,  belle  Marie" 
he  cried,  his  voice  almost  harsh  in  the  intensity  of 
its  ardor. 

Mary  raised  her  hand  to  her  eyes  as  though  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  that  glowing,  radiant  face. 
The  other  hand  resting  in  her  lap,  small  and  white 
and  yet  wonderfully  like  that  large  fist  of  the  Heer 
Governor  at  the  fort,  tightened  with  the  same  con 
vulsive  motion.  Then  an  unusual  firmness,  almost 
a  sternness,  came  into  her  face. 

"  'T  is  time  we  went,  Ab'm,"  she  said,  rising 
from  her  seat  on  the  fallen  tree  trunk.  "  See 
yonder  how  late  it  grows,"  and  she  walked  to  the 
entrance  of  the  grove  and  pointed  to  where,  above 
the  Palisades  on  the  further  shore,  the  sunset  colors 
were  fading  in  the  sky. 

Abram   followed   her   with   silent   protest.     He 
knew  her  ignoring  of  his  lover's  speech  to  be  some 
thing  more  than  a  pretty  maidenly  wile.      There 
was  that  in  her  face  which  foretold  future  conflict,' 
future  pain. 


32  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

They  walked  for  a  long  time  in  silence.  Mary 
avoided  his  tenderly  accusing  eyes.  Not  until  they 
came  to  the  brook  and  she  took  the  helping  hand 
which  he  held  out  to  her  did  her  glance  meet  his, 
and  then  it  was  regretfully,  sadly. 

"  Ab'm,"  she  said,  as  they  left  the  brook  behind 
them  and  went  on  across  the  meadows,  "  there  is 
something  I  would  speak  with  you  about,  some 
thing  that  has  been  much  upon  my  mind  these  last 
few  days.  Indeed,  'twas  principally  to  speak  of  it 
to  you  that  I  agreed  to  take  this  walk  with  you  this 
afternoon." 

Abram  turned  to  her  quickly,  inquiringly.  At 
last  there  was  to  be  an  end  of  all  this  mystery,  an 
explanation  of  Mary's  strange  and  unusual  mood. 

"  'T  is  about  a  maid,"  Mary  continued,  "  a  maid 
such  as  I,  who  has  often  wished  herself  a  lad  that 
she  might  help  in  the  great  cause  to  which  so  much 
of  labor  and  of  life  is  being  sacrificed.  One  day 
her  mother  came  to  her  and  said :  '  You  wish  to 
help,  my  daughter  ?  Here  is  your  opportunity.  A 
man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  make  or  ruin  the 
cause  has  made  your  hand  the  price  of  his  services. 
Your  father,  knowing  your  loyalty,  has  answered 
for  you,  he  has  promised  you.  Shame  not  your 
father's  word,  shame  not  your  own  loyalty  by  a  re 
fusal."  All  this  was  said  in  Mary's  accustomed  soft 
and  even  tones.  But  as  she  went  on  it  was  with 
an  eagerness,  a  pleading.  "  What  could  the  maid 
say?  There  was  but  one  answer  possible.  For 


BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE.  32 

what  mattered  it  that  she  did  not  love  this  man  ? 
Indeed,  what  mattered  it  that  she  loved  some  one 
else  and  that,  mayhap,  this  some  one  else  loved 
her  ?  What  were  a  pair  of  foolish  hearts  compared 
with  a  great  cause,  a  matter  of  life  and  death  ?  " 

They  were  nearing  the  city  wall.  As  they  came 
within  the  shadow  of  its  grass-grown  ruins,  Mary 
turned  to  Abram.  "  What  think  you,  Ab'm  ?  "  she 
asked,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice  ;  "  did  the  maid 
do  right  or  wrong  when  she  agreed  to  marry  the 
man  who  made  her  hand  the  price  of  his  services  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Abram's  admiration  of  Mary's 
devotion  to  what  she  deemed  her  duty  and  loyalty 
was  strongest  with  him.  His  doubts  and  protests 
and  the  cryings  of  his  heart  were  stilled  by  a  realiz 
ing  sense  of  the  girl's  courage  and  unselfishness  of 
purpose.  He  knew  better  than  she  how  matters 
stood  with  her  father  and  what  were  the  reasons 
and  needs  for  her  decision.  Through  the  dimness 
of  the  twilight  and  his  own  blurred  vision,  he  gazed 
upward  at  her  as  she  stood  on  a  rise  of  ground 
above  him.  Her  hands  were  folded  as  if  in  prayer 
high  upon  her  bosom  and  showed  strangely  pale 
against  the  dark  of  her  cloak;  a  sweet  enthusiasm, 
which  was  not  without  its  look  of  sadness  and 
compassion,  was  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  to  Abram's 
young  and  ardent  soul  she  seemed  very  like  a 
painting  of  some  golden-haired  Flemish  Madonna, 
such  as  those  seen  in  the  old  Dutch  churches  across 
the  sea.  He  lowered  his  gaze  in  reverent  homage 


34  BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE. 

and  answered  huskily,  "  I  know  not,  Marie.  I 
only  know  that  she  did  nobly." 

Then,  with  the  determination  of  one  who  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  do  away  with  subterfuge  and 
mystery  and  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  truth, 
however  hard,  however  cruel,  in  a  voice  that  was 
still  husky  with  emotion  he  said,  "  Of  course,  't  is 
yourself  of  whom  you  speak,  Marie  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  And  the  man  ?  " 

"  Mynheer  Milborne." 

At  the  mention  of  that  name  a  hot  flush  over 
spread  Abram's  face  which,  when  it  had  passed, 
left  him  pale  and  rebellious.  His  lips  tightened 
and  he  clenched  his  hands  like  one  strugging 
against  some  physical  anguish.  A  vision  of  Myn 
heer  Milborne,  the  governor's  secretary,  rose  before 
him  —  a  dark  and  gloomy  man,  nearer  the  age  of 
Mary's  father  than  of  Mary's  self,  one  who  had 
never  been  a  favorite  with  Abram  and  the  other 
Yonkers  at  the  fort.  "  Old  gruff  and  grum,"  they 
had  called  him. 

"  Nay,  Marie,"  he  cried,  breaking  a  long  and 
painful  silence,  "  't  is  too  great  a  sacrifice.  It  shall 
not  be.  You  shall  not  marry  Mynheer  Milborne. 
Who  is  Mynheer  Milborne  to  ruin  your  young 
life  ?  Surely  the  cause  may  prosper  without  the 
aid  of  Mynheer  Milborne.  There  be  other  men  at 
the  fort  than  Mynheer  Milborne." 

The  bitterness  and  sarcasm  of  the  lad's  tone  in- 


BESIDE   THE    WATER-GATE.  35 

creased  with  each  reiteration  of  the  name.  He 
flung  up  his  head  with  the  impetuous  motion  char 
acteristic  of  him.  A  proud,  defiant  love  looked 
from  his  eyes.  "Have  you  forgotten  your  old 
playfellow,  Abram  Gouveneur?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  suddenly  grown  tender  and  yet  bitter  and 
sarcastic  as  before.  "  What  is  to  become  of  him 
when  the  belle  Marie  becomes  Vrouw  Milborne  ? 
His  love  is  yours  as  it  always  has  been,  always  will 
be.  Do  you  fling  it  away  ?  " 

"  Ab'm !  "  Mary  spoke  only  the  one  word,  but 
there  was  a  volume  of  mingled  entreaty  and  com 
mand  in  her  tone.  Her  hands  were  held  out  to 
ha'm  imploringly,  and  her  face,  pale  as  his  own, 
was  quivering  with  protesting,  supplicating  love. 
And  in  her  eyes  there  shone,  its  radiance  un- 
dimmed,  the  light  of  a  steadfast  purpose.  The 
daughter  had  inherited  the  father's  indomitable 
will. 

Abram  saw  the  light  and  realized  the  hopeless 
ness  of  further  opposition  to  that  will.  He  saw, 
too,  the  outstretched  hands  and  quivering  face, 
and  with  the  instinct  of  true  love  he  forgot  his 
own  pain  in  seeking  to  lighten  Mary's  pain. 

He  knelt  and  raised  the  outstretched  hands  to 
his  lips.  " Forgive  me,  belle  Marie"  he  faltered 
brokenly.  "  I  make  it  hard  for  you.  The  pain  of 
giving  you  up  unmanned  me  for  a  time.  But  look, 
I  am  strong  again,"  and  he  raised  his  face  to  hers 
with  a  brave,  reassuring  smile. 


36  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

"  Ab'm  —  dear  lad,"  she  said,  echoing  his  falter 
ing,  broken  tones.  In  the  uncertain  light  her 
answering  smile  showed  tremulous,  suggesting 
tears.  She  bent  and  kissed  his  forehead.  The  sad, 
dispassionate  fervor  with  which  she  did  it  gave 
consecration  to  the  act. 

When  she  raised  her  head  again  it  was  with  a 
start.  Abram's  gaze  followed  hers  to  the  Water- 
Gate  close  by.  There  in  the  opening  stood  two 
men.  They  were  engaged  in  low  and  earnest  dis 
course.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  powerful, 
robust  figure  of  the  one ;  the  other  was  not  so 
easily  recognized,  for  he  was  shrouded  in  a  long 
black  coat,  and  his  steeple-crown  hat  was  worn  low 
on  his  forehead  so  that  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
was  in  shadow.  But  Mary  and  Abram  knew  both 
men  immediately.  They  were  the  Heer  Governor 
and  his  secretary. 

The  fixed  gaze  of  the  young  lovers  arrested  the 
attention  of  the  Governor.  He  turned  in  their 
direction,  peered  through  the  dusk,  and  recognized 
them.  "  Mary  !  Gouveneur  !  "  he  called. 

They  went  to  him.  The  quiet  dignity  that  was 
theirs,  as  they  stood  before  him  and  met  his  search 
ing  glance,  must  have  appeased  whatever  of  dis 
turbance  or  displeasure  he  may  have  felt  at  seeing 
them  together.  He  turned  to  his  tall,  dark  com 
panion  with  a  broad  smile.  "  Look  to  your  bride, 
friend  Jacob,"  he  said.  "  It  appears  she  hath  been 
overloopen  the  country  with  my  young  Greheim- 


BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE.  '61 

sehryver  in  your  absence.  The  maid  is  a  wander- 
foot,  I  warn  you,  and  needs  close  and  careful 
scrutiny."  And  to  Mary,  in  the  same  joking  strain, 
"  Mynheer  Milborne  is  only  now  returned  from 
Albany,"  he  declared.  "  We  had  just  met,  here  at 
the  Water-Poort,  and  he  was  telling  me  that  he  had 
had  no  dinner  and  was  famished.  Go  you  home 
with  him,  child,  and  treat  him  to  the  good  mother's 
supawn  and  rolliches"  Then  to  Abram,  more 
seriously,  laying  a  hand  affectionately  on  the 
lad's  shoulder,  "  As  for  you,  my  young  Geheim- 
schryver,"  he  concluded,  "  come  you  with  me  to 
the  fort.  There  is  work  to  be  done  and  plenty. 
You  will  earn  your  salt  to-night,  boy." 

And  so  they  parted,  Abraham  and  Mary,  in  the 
twilight,  by  the  Water- Gate.  They  parted  quite 
as  though  theirs  was  an  ordinary  parting,  Mary- 
going  off  leaning  on  Mynheer  Milborne's  arm, 
listening  to  his  talk  of  supawn  and  rolliches 
and  other  practical  wisdoms,  and  Abram  preceding 
with  the  Heer  Governor  to  the  fort,  there  to  per 
form  the  duties  of  his  office ;  but  to  their  young 
hearts  it  seemed  that  life  was  ended,  that  only  a 
joyless  existence  was  left  them. 

After  long  years  of  sorrow  and  of  suffering, 
Abram  and  Mary  met  again.  The  cause  to 
which  they  had  sacrificed  so  much  was  lost. 
The  people's  Governor,  the  beloved  father  and 
patron,  was  dead ;  and  with  him  had  died  his  sec- 


38  BESIDE   THE   WATER-GATE. 

retary  and  son-in-law,  Mynheer  Milborne.  Mary 
was  without  father  or  husband.  Abram  had  lain 
many  months  in  prison,  with  the  other  five  mem 
bers  of  the  Governor's  council,  under  a  sentence  of 
death.  He  had  escaped  to  England,  and  by  patient, 
persevering  efforts,  and  with  the  help  of  Jacob, 
Jr.,  Mary's  old-time  "  torment  of  a  brother,"  had 
pled  for  justice  before  the  English  king,  and  had 
succeeded  in  clearing  the  name  of  Jacob  Leisler 
and  the  names  of  his  family  and  council  from  "  the 
lying  charge  of  treason." 

Sorrow  was  behind  Abram  and  Mary.  The 
music  of  wedding-bells  was  before  them,  and  the 
joys  of  a  happy  love.  They  came  together  with  a 
gladness  like  that  of  children,  for  happiness  makes 
young.  The  laughing  light  returned  to  their  eyes 
and  the  note  of  sweet  content  to  their  voices. 
They  were  playfellows  again. 


III. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES. 

"  MY  dear  Lady  Spottsgood,  you  are  making  a 
veritable  St.  Anthony's  meal.  Where  is  your  ap 
petite  ?  Pray  pay  the  debt  you  owe  your  stomach 
and  let  Sambo  help  you  to  some  of  that  pigeon 
stew,  and  to  the  truffles  that  go  with  it ;  they  are 
not  bad,  I  assure  you.  And  you,  Mr.  Fountain, 
you  dine  like  a  Mohametan,  without  wine.  Will 
you  not  exercise  your  Christian  privilege  and  drink 
with  us  ?  " 

Thus  spoke  Colonel  Byrd,  turning  from  one  to 
another  of  his  guests,  a  genial,  jovial  host,  playing 
a  part  for  which  nature  had  fitted  him,  the  prince 
of  hospitality. 

Lady  Spottsgood,  who  sat  on  his  right,  declared 
that  he  was  making  a  gourmand  of  her.  Never 
theless,  she  submitted  to  the  helping ;  't  was  as  im 
possible,  she  said,  to  resist  the  Colonel's  pigeon  stew 
and  truffles  as  it  was  to  resist  the  Colonel  himself. 

But  the  rector,  who  sat  on  the  Colonel's  left, 
shook  his  head.  He  pointed  smilingly  to  his  goblet 
of  water.  "  I  prefer  the  drink  that  Adam  drank  in 
Paradise,"  he  answered. 

Miss  Theky,  a  simple  little  spinster  lady,  pale- 

39 


40  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

faced  and  golden-curled,  whose  place  was  next  the 
rector,  regarded  him  with  serious  approval.  "  I 
admire  your  preference,  Mr.  Fountain,"  she  said. 
"Water  is  a  better  drink  than  wine,  is  it  not, 
Colonel  Byrd?" 

The  Colonel  bit  his  lip,  and  exchanged  glances 
that  might  have  been  termed  winks  with  certain 
of  his  gentlemen  guests,  glances  that  were  lost  upon 
Miss  Tbeky.  "  Water  is  an  excellent  drink,  Miss 
Theky,"  he  rejoined  with  suave  diplomacy.  "  I 
doubt  not  but  that  if  a  man  drank  only  of  water 
he  would  alwaj^s  eat  well  and  sleep  well,  the  stream 
of  life  would  flow  cool  and  peaceable  in  his  veins, 
and  if  ever  he  dreamed  of  women,  they  would  be 
kind." 

A  gentleman  seated  near  the  foot  of  the  table,  a 
young  man  with  little  of  that  debonair,  cavalier 
manner  which  characterized  the  Colonel  and  the 
most  of  his  gentlemen  guests,  but  rather  of  a  grave 
and  thoughtful  mien,  hearing  what  the  Colonel 
said,  bent  toward  the  Colonel's  daughter,  at  whose 
side  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  sit,  and  whispered  in 
the  little  ear  half  hidden  beneath  the  chestnut  hair, 
"  Cousin  Evelyn,  I  vow  I  will  drink  naught  but 
water  if  by  so  doing  I  may  dream  of  you  as  kind." 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  Evelyn's  pretty  almond- 
shaped  eyes  looked  into  her  cousin's.  "  I  hope  I 
may  be  always  kind,  cousin  Daniel,"  she  answered, 
"in  dreams  and  out  of  dreams."  Then  leaning 
forward  and  glancing  down  the  table  to  those  at  the 


THE   SECRET  OF   THE   TREES.  41 

further  end,  she  declared  with  gentle  raillery,  "  I 
hear  my  father  speaking  in  praise  of  water.  He  is 
becoming  simple  in  his  tastes.  Next  he  will  be 
advocating  a  primitive  mode  of  living,  and  his 
family  will  be  losers." 

The  Colonel  smiled  in  answer  to  his  daughter's 
raillery.  "  I  am  not  so  sure  but  that  the  primitive 
mode  of  life  is  best,"  he  said.  "  Mankind,  I  think, 
are  no  gainers  by  the  luxury  of  feather  beds  and 
warm  apartments.  He  sleeps  best  who  sleeps  on 
the  ground  with  a  clear  sky  spangled  with  stars 
above  him  for  a  canopy.  I  swear  I  am  oft-times 
tempted  to  set  fire  to  my  house,  and  to  teach  my 
wife  and  children  to  sleep  in  the  open  air." 

"  I  think  't  is  only  fair  you  should  consult  your 
wife  and  children  before  setting  fire  to  your  house," 
interposed  the  lady  presiding  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 
She  was  a  beautiful  young  English  woman,  this 
third  wife  of  Colonel  Byrd's  and  mistress  of  West- 
over,  a  near  connection  of  Martha  and  Teresa  Blout. 
"  What  do  you  say,  Evelyn  ?  "  she  inquired,  turn 
ing  to  her  step-daughter. 

"  I  say  that  my  father  should  be  punished  for  his 
cruel  threat,"  said  Evelyn.  "  I  am  going  to  tell 
tales  upon  him."  She  addressed  herself  to  the  rec 
tor.  "Would  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Fountain,  my 
father  violated  the  Sabbath  this  morning  by  riding 
five  miles  ?  " 

"Tut,  tut,  Evelyn,  spare  me,"  protested  the 
Colonel,  laughing.  "  I  have  already  atoned  for 


42      THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES. 

my  sin.  Did  I  not  pay  for  it  by  losing  my  favorite 
pair  of  gold  cuff  buttons  on  the  way  ?  And  seri 
ously,  Mr.  Fountain,  is  it  a  very  grave  offence  to 
ride  upon  the  Sabbath,  do  you  think?" 

The  rector  regarded  his  wealthiest  parishioner 
with  a  leniency  that  showed  he  was  not  without  his 
share  of  that  cavalier  easiness  of  temperament  pre 
vailing  in  colonial  Virginia. 

''  I  am  for  doing  all  acts  of  necessity,  charity,  or 
self-preservation  on  the  Lord's  day  as  on  any  other 
day,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  not  so  severe,  then,  as  that  New  Eng 
land  magistrate  who  ordered  a  man  to  the  whipping 
post  for  daring  to  ride  for  a  doctor  on  the  Lord's 
day?"  inquired  Colonel  Spottsgood,  a  quondam 
magistrate  of  Virginia ;  and  every  one  laughed  — 
every  one  except  Miss  Theky. 

Miss  Theky  fixed  her  serious  blue  eyes  upon 
Colonel  Spottsgood,  who  chanced  to  be  her  brother- 
in-law  as  well  as  Virginia's  quondam  magistrate. 
"  The  Jews  held  it  unlawful  even  to  stand  on  their 
defence  on  the  Sabbath,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"  And  were  knocked  on  the  head  by  Antiochus 
in  consequence,"  retorted  her  brother-in-law,  unre- 
pressed.  "  We  are  not  Jews,  Angelica." 

"  And  on  the  other  hand  we  are  not  Indians," 
interposed  Colonel  Byrd.  "  They,  like  Robinson 
Crusoe,  do  not  know  Sunday  from  any  other 
day." 

"  The  lazy  red  man  keeps  the  Sabbath  every  day 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES.  43 

in  the  week,"  remarked  Evelyn's  cousin  Daniel 
with  a  droll  smile  that  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"So  they  do,  nephew,"  rejoined  the  Colonel, 
laughing,  "  so  far  as  industry  is  concerned.  And 
as  for  praying,  the  Indian  prays  as  the  philosopher 
eats  —  only  when  he  has  a  stomach  for  it.  But 
speaking  of  eating,  how  do  you  like  this  whip-silla 
bub  that  my  wife  offers  you  ?  Do  you  not  think, 
gentleman,  that  't  is  very  like  a  woman's  conversa 
tion,  pretty  but  nothing  to  it  ?  " 

At  this  the  men  laughed  and  the  ladies  pro 
tested. 

Evelyn,  who  delighted  to  answer  her  father's 
sallies  of  wit  with  teasing,  looked  towards  him, 
smiling  archly.  "  'T  is  very  unwise  of  you  to  speak 
so,  dear  sir,"  she  observed.  "  Now  every  one  will 
know  that  you  are  ruled  by  your  wife  —  for  only 
men  who  are  ruled  by  their  wives  speak  of  women 
in  that  petty  fashion.  Remember  Parson  Marij," 
and  she  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

This  time  it  was  the  ladies  who  laughed.  The 
Parson  Marij  to  whom  Evelyn  referred  was  known 
throughout  the  neighborhood  as  a  loud  condemner 
of  women  and  the  meekest  of  husbands  as  well. 

"  The  gray  mare  is  certainly  the  best  horse  in 
the  Marij  family,"  remarked  Lady  Spottegood, 
decisively. 

"  Yes,  but  what  a  creature !  "  sighed  Madam 
Byrd,  lifting  her  eyebrows  with  a  look  of  refined 
disgust. 


44      THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES. 

Miss  Tbeky  glanced  anxiously  at  her  hostess. 
"  You  do  not  like  her  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  She  is 
not  a  lady  ?  " 

Mrs.  Byrd's  lip  curled  a  bit,  and  Evelyn  answered 
with  the  epigrammatic  terseness  that  she  had  in 
herited  from  her  father,  and  that  was  accompanied 
with  a  languid  grace  of  utterance  that  heightened 
its  effect.  "  Enough  of  a  lady,  I  imagine,  to  run 
into  debt  and  be  of  no  use  in  her  household." 

"  She  cannot  run  very  far  into  debt,"  interposed 
the  rector,  "  for  no  one  will  trust  her  beyond  the 
limit  of  her  husband's  salary  —  and  that  goes  but  a 
short  way,  I  assure  you." 

"  What  is  her  husband's  salary  ?  "  quickly  in 
quired  several  inquisitive  voices. 

"  Sixteen  thousand  pounds  of  tobacco,  I  presume, 
no  more  no  less  than  what  is  legally  allowed  us 
poor  men  of  the  cloth  here  in  the  colonies."  The 
rector  smiled  as  he  spoke,  perhaps  it  was  at  the 
thought  that  his  good  fortune  had  placed  him  in 
a  parish  of  rich  and  generous  men,  who  gave  more 
than  the  law  required. 

"  Humph,"  ejaculated  Colonel  Byrd,  with  dry- 
humor,  "at  that  rate,  Parson  Marij  is  paid  no  more 
for  his  preaching  than  'tis  worth.  But,  friends," 
he  broke  off,  "  do  you  realize  we  are  gossiping 
outrageously?  Shall  we  not  change  the  topic  of 
our  discourse  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  rector.  "  Pray  tell 
me,  Colonel  Byrd,  how  came  that  grim  little 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE   TREES.  45 

Republican  with  the  cocked  hat  into  your  gallery 
of  aristocrats  ?  "  And  he  pointed  to  a  portrait  that 
looked  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  lords  and 
ladies,  the  earls  and  dukes,  and  all  the  other  titled 
persons  that  smiled  or  frowned  or  stared  blankly 
upon  the  beholder  from  their  high  places  on  West- 
over's  dining-room  wall. 

The  attention  of  the  company  was  turned  to  the 
portrait,  and  Colonel  Byrd  surveyed  it  amusedly 
as  he  related  its  story,  telling  how  it  was  the  like 
ness  of  a  conceited  little  clerk  of  the  Virginia 
House  of  Burgesses,  who  had  presented  it  to  him, 
requesting  that  it  might  hang  among  his  gallery 
of  peers,  for  whom  the  little  clerk  wished  to  show 
his  contempt  by  wearing  his  hat  in  their  presence. 

"  I  accepted  the  portrait,"  the  Colonel  declared ; 
"  but  I  told  him  it  should  hang  among  the  peers  as 
a  token  that  the  clerk  of  the  House  of  Burgesses 
found  the  company  too  good  for  his  keeping  and 
had  put  on  his  hat  in  the  act  of  departure." 

While  the  company  were  engaged  in  looking  at 
the  portrait  and  laughing  over  the  Colonel's  story, 
Evelyn  stole  a  glance  at  the  young  man  beside  her. 
He  was  not  looking  at  the  portrait  nor  laughing 
over  the  story.  His  gaze  and  his  thoughts  too,  it 
appeared,  had  gone  wandering.  They  were  with 
the  fair  world  without,  the  smooth,  terraced  lawns, 
the  tall,  waving  trees,  the  fields  of  wheat  and  clover, 
and  the  distant  river  view.  'T  was  a  fair  world 
and  no  mistake,  thought  Evelyn,  as  her  gaze  fol- 


46  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

lowed  his;  but,  she  queried,  were  one  really  and 
truly  in  love,  would  one  care  to  stare  so  fixedly 
upon  it  ?  She  drew  a  soft,  fluttering  sigh  and  her 
face  took  on  the  pensive,  sad  expression  that  it 
always  wore  when  she  was  not  smiling  or  talking. 

As  if  arrested  by  that  unspoken  query  the  young 
man  looked  towards  her.  "Did  you  speak,  Eve 
lyn  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered,  with  lowered  eyes  and 
faintly  smiling  lips.  "But,  had  I  spoken,  you 
would  not  have  heard.  You  were  very  far  away." 

As  she  answered,  it  was  as  though  her  beauty  — 
the  delicately  tinted  cheeks,  the  dark  drooping 
lashes,  the  errant  love  lock  escaped  from  waves  of 
chestnut  hair,  the  fair  white  neck  shining  beneath 
a  thin  blue  cloud  of  gauze,  the  long,  slender  waist, 
the  exquisite  grace  and  poise  of  the  whole  figure  — 
it  was  as  though  all  this  cried  out  to  the  young 
man  for  love  and  homage,  such  love  and  homage 
as  had  been  awarded  it  so  generally  in  England, 
where  Mistress  Evelyn  Byrd,  the  rara  avis  as  she 
was  called,  had  been  the  toast  of  the  day  at  the 
coffee  houses  and  along  the  Mall. 

A  look  of  regret,  almost  of  shame,  crossed  the 
young  man's  face  as  he  regarded  her.  "I  crave 
your  pardon,  Evelyn,"  he  said.  "  I  am  poor  com 
pany  for  you.  I  am  not  —  Pope  —  or  Peterboro'  - 
or  Beau  Nash  —  or  my  lords  of  Oxford  or  of  Ches 
terfield.  I  am  simply  a  Virginia  planter  with 
naught  of  poetry  or  of  brilliancy  to  recommend 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE    TREES.  47 

me."  He  ended  with  his  quiet,  droll  smile  that, 
for  the  moment,  seemed  to  hint  at  sadness. 

With  languid  ease  Evelyn  turned  and  surveyed 
him,  and  her  look  might  have  meant  many  things. 
"Simply  a  Virginia  planter,"  she  repeated  after 
him,  slowly  and  meditatively,  "with  naught  of 
poetry  or  of  brilliancy  to  recommend  you.  I 
wonder  what  your  friends  find  to  admire  in  you, 
cousin  Daniel." 

Dinner  was  at  an  end.  The  hostess  and  the  rest 
of  the  ladies  were  rising,  leaving  the  gentlemen  to 
their  wine.  Evelyn  rose  with  them,  and  as  she 
did  so  the  filmy  scarf  that  she  wore  about  her 
neck  fluttered  to  the  floor. 

Gathering  it  up  and  folding  it  about  her,  her 
cousin  took  occasion  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "  Where 
shall  I  find  you,  Evelyn  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  a  meaning  glance,  and  Evelyn 
raised  inquiring  brows. 

"  You  and  I  have  much  to  say  to  each  other,"  he 
added  in  parentheses,  going  with  her  to  the  door. 

She  turned  on  the  threshold.  "  Yes,"  she  said, 
raising  her  eyelids  slowly  and  looking  with  strange, 
searching  gaze  into  his  face.  "  Let  it  be  at  our  old 
haunt,  the  honeysuckle  gate." 

With  that  she  left  him  and  crossed  the  hall  to  the 
drawing-room  on  the  further  side.  As  she  went 
she  heard  some  one  of  the  men  singing  softly  in  a 
teasing  strain,  and  as  if  for  her  cousin's  benefit,  the 

O 

charming  old  love  song,  familiar  then  as  now : 


48  THE   SECRET  OF  THE    TREES. 

"  '  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  : 
But  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup 

And  I  '11  not  ask  for  wine  : 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine, 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup 

I  would  not  change  for  thine.' " 

4i  Pretty  song,  eh,  Custis  ?  "  the  man  queried  at 
the  end.;  and  there  was  a  low  laugh  among  the 
men. 

Evelyn  listened,  the  faint,  sad  smile  flitting 
across  her  face.  "  The  world  will  have  it  that  Mr. 
Daniel  Parke  Custis  loves  me,"  she  mused.  "  But 
the  world  is  oft-times  mistaken." 

In  the  drawing-room,  a  long,  cool  room  richly  fur 
nished  and  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  many  flowers, 
Evelyn  reposed  herself  among  the  cushions  and  took 
part  in  the  feminine  chifc-chat  going  on  about  her. 
She  talked  with  Lady  Spottsgood  of  the  poultry 
that  her  ladyship  was  raising ;  of  the  ginseng,  that 
plant  of  scarlet  berries,  beneficial  in  coughs  and 
colds,  that  grew  in  abundance  on  the  Spottsgood 
plantation ;  and  of  the  deer  which  were  great  pets 
with  the  Colonel,  and  which  were  allowed  to 
wander  familiarly  about  the  house  to  the  destruc 
tion  of  the  Spottsgood  china  and  glass,  a  destruc 
tion  that  Lady  Spottsgood  appeared  to  regard  with 
a  forbearance  and  good  humor  quite  surprising  in 
a  housewife.  Of  Miss  Theky,  Evelyn  inquired 
concerning  Miss  Theky's  pet,  the  dog  upon  whom, 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES.      49 

for  want  of  a  better  object,  it  was  hinted,  Miss 
Theky  had  bestowed  her  maiden  affections.  The 
little  spinster's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  an 
swered.  This  day,  which  chanced  to  be  her  birth 
day,  was  like  to  have  been  a  day  of  mourning  for 
her,  she  said.  Her  little  dog,  who  was  of  course 
the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  creatures,  had  offended 
her  brother-in-law,  Colonel  Spottsgood,  and  in  con 
sequence  by  that  same  brother-in-law  had  been 
condemned  to  die.  However,  she  had  entreated 
most  piteously  for  the  life  of  her  darling,  and  on 
the  plea  that  the  day  was  her  birthday  and  that 
naught  should  be  denied  her,  had  obtained  pardon 
for  him. 

Evelyn  attended  to  all  that  was  said  graciously 
and  sympathetically,  as  was  her  way.  But  when 
Mrs.  Byrd  seated  herself  at  the  harpsichord  and 
the  ladies  gathered  round  to  listen  to  her  playing 
and  singing,  Evelyn  quietly  left  the  drawing-room 
and  wandered  out  into  the  garden.  The  guests  at 
Westover  that  Sunday  were  old  friends  and  neigh 
bors,  she  stood  on  no  ceremony  with  them,  and 
could  go  and  come  among  them  as  she  pleased. 

Down  by  the  "  honeysuckle-gate,"  a  summer 
drowsiness  prevailed.  The  sunlight  flashed  on  the 
river  and  sifted  through  the  green  branches  over 
head.  The  bees  buzzed  loudly  and  insistently,  and 
scents  of  clover  and  of  garden  flowers  hung  heavy 
in  the  air.  And  on  and  about  the  gate  itself  and 
the  vine  that  twined  over  its  intricate  iron  tracery 


50  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

the  humming-birds,  those  exquisite  fairies  of  the 
feathered  kind,  flitted  to  and  fro,  drinking  the  nec 
tar  that  flowed  for  them  in  the  yellow  flower  cups. 

With  so  soft  and  light  a  tread  did  Evelyn  go 
down  the  garden  path  that  the  young  man,  who 
waited  her  coming  at  the  gate,  did  not  hear  her. 
She  was  obliged  to  speak  to  make  her  presence 
known. 

"I  am  come  to  keep  my  tryst,"  she  said;  and 
when  at  sound  of  her  voice  the  young  man  turned 
she  was  standing  only  a  few  yards  from  him, 
smiling,  serene,  perfect  in  her  loveliness. 

"  At  last,"  he  cried.  "  You  were  long  in-  coming, 
Evelyn;  or,  at  least,  to  my  impatient  spirit  it 
seemed  that  you  were  long."  He  made  a  move  to 
go  to  her  and  would  have  bent  to  kiss  her  hand, 
but  the  expression  of  her  eyes  stopped  him. 

"What  have  you  and  I  to  say  to  each  other, 
Daniel?"  she  asked,  with  the  look  of  one  who 
wishes  to  dispense  with  trifling  and  to  have  to  do 
only  in  very  earnest. 

Immediately  the  young  man  dropped  the  cavalier 
air  that  was  rare  with  him,  and  looked  into  his 
cousin's  eyes  gravely  and  questioningly.  "  Eve 
lyn,  when  may  I  have  my  answer  ?  "  he  asked. 

" '  T  is  ready  for  you  here  and  now,"  she  re 
turned  with  a  glimmering  of  her  sad  smile. 

Still  looking  into  her  eyes,  the  young  man  cried, 
"  Nay,  Evelyn,  not  that  answer,  I  beg  of  you."  And 
when  her  expression  did  not  change,  "You  were 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE   TREES.  51 

different  at  dinner,  Evelyn.  You  said  you  hoped 
you  might  be  kind." 

"  And  what  is  being  kind? "  she  answered.  " Is 
not  saving  you  from  making  a  marriage  of  con 
venience  being  kind?  " 

Before  her  searching  gaze  the  young  man's 
glance  fell  from  her  face  to  the  silken  folds  of  her 
pale  blue-green  gown.  "  And  do  you  not  think 
that  I  love  you,  Evelyn? "he  asked  in  lowered 
voice. 

"  As  a  cousin,  as  an  old  friend,  yes,  perhaps ;  but, 
Daniel,  you  are  capable  of  loving  a  woman,  the 
woman,  better  than  that." 

The  young  man  lifted  his  glance  from  the  blue- 
green  gown  to  the  sad,  pensive  face,  and  above  to 
the  crescent  of  moonstones  that  glistened  like  a 
crescent  of  tears  on  the  white  forehead.  "  It  may 
be  that  you  are  right,  Evelyn,"  he  said.  "  Yet,  I 
ask  you,  while  we  were  happy  in  one  another's 
companionship,  might  not  the  greater  love  come  in 
time  ?  " 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  We  have  been  happy 
in  one  another's  companionship  a  long  while,  our 
whole  lives,"  she  answered,  "  and  the  greater  love 
has  not  come."  As  she  spoke,  she  drew  the  soft, 
fluttering  sigh  that  had  escaped  her  once  before 
that  day,  and  looked  away  with  a  weariness  of 
expression. 

The  sigh  and  the  expression  had  the  appearance 
of  symbols  of  ennui.  "  I  bore  you,"  said  young 


52      THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES. 

Custis,  with  a  suggestion  of  hauteur.  "  I  see  that 
you  are  not  to  be  persuaded.  I  will  desist  from 
further  argument,"  and  he  too  looked  away. 

A  moment  later  Evelyn's  slender  hand  was  laid 
upon  the  young  man's  ruffled  sleeve.  "  Let  us 
not  quarrel,  Daniel,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  face 
with  a  smile  brighter  than  any  she  had  yet  given 
him  that  afternoon  at  the  honeysuckle  gate. 
"  We  have  been  good  friends  always,  we  must 
not  change  now.  We  must  remain  good  friends  ; 
for  we  shall  have  need  of  one  another's  friendship, 
shall  we  not,  when  our  fathers  learn  of  our  decision 
and  scold  us  roundly  for  spoiling  the  project  they 
have  so  long  cherished  for  us?  "  and  she  ended  with 
her  thin,  silvery  laugh. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  smile,  the  laugh,  the 
words,  and  the  sweet  mood  that  prompted  them, 
the  young  man's  hauteur  quickly  and  completely 
vanished.  He  regarded  Evelyn  with  a  look  such 
as  that  with  which  a  man  might  regard  a  sister  of 
whom  he  was  both  fond  and  proud  ;  a  look  which, 
had  a  woman  loved  him,  must  have  pained  while  it 
pleased. 

"  Quarrel  with  you,  Evelyn?  "  he  exclaimed  heart 
ily.  "  One  would  not  if  one  could.  You  are  too 
much  the  perfect  lady  to  make  it  possible  for  any 
one  to  quarrel  with  you."  He  glanced  away  to 
the  river  and  then  back  to  the  girl's  face,  "  And, 
Evelyn,"  he  said,  "  if  I  may  not  be  your  lover,  I 
will  be  your  friend,  always  your  friend,  more  than 


THE   SECRET  OF   THE    TREES.  53 

ever  your  friend.  And  indeed  I  fancy  I  shall 
never  come  to  be  another  woman's  lover  so  long  as 
I  may  keep  your  friend." 

"  So  you  will  think,  perhaps,  until  you  come  to 
be  that  other  woman's  lover,"  answered  Evelyn, 
and  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  were  hidden  beneath 
the  shadow  of  her  lashes.  Then  she  lifted  her 
glance,  and  with  a  showing  of  her  bright  smile 
which  had  yet  a  suggestion  of  her  sad  smile,  leaning 
against  the  gate,  she  surveyed  her  cousin  musingly. 
"  I  wonder  what  she  will  be  like,"  she  queried. 
"  'T  would  be  interesting  to  hazard  a  guess." 

Led  by  her  graceful  guidance,  the  young  man 
fell  easily  in  with  her  half-trifling  mood.  He 
leaned  upon  the  gate  beside  her,  and  answered  her 
smile  with  one  of  his.  "  Pray  do,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Your  guess  cannot  fail  to  be  of  interest  to  him 
for  whom  you  guess." 

Evelyn  grew  thoughtful  and  was  silent  for  a 
while.  Then  she  said,  "She  will  be  very  unlike 
me  and  better  suited  to  you  and  your  plantation 
home.  Like  the  clovers  growing  in  the  meadow 
yonder,  her  loveliness  will  be  fresh,  simple,  sturdy, 
while  I,  who  am  more  like  the  roses  climbing  over 
the  trellis  here  beside  us,  am  what  I  am  only  be 
cause  of  excessive  pruning  and  care." 

"Evelyn,  you  'underrate  your  own  inherent 
charm,"  interposed  the  young  man. 

But  Evelyn  shook  her  head.  Still  leaning  on 
the  gate  and  resting  her  chin  upon  her  hand,  she 


54  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

looked  off  to  the  river  and  the  further  shore  where 
the  scene  was  one  of  a  wild,  woodland  beauty,  a 
scene  strangely  and  yet  enchantingly  in  contrast 
with  the  girl  herself,  who  was  so  delicate,  so  refined, 
so  exquisite,  so  very  nearly  artificial  in  the  perfec 
tion  of  all  arts  and  graces. 

Young  Custis  studied  her  with  his  eyes,  and 
after  a  pause,  in  low,  meditating  tone,  he  remarked, 
"  Evelyn,  I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  love." 

A  shadow  as  of  sudden  pain  crossed  Evelyn's 
face.  She  lifted  her  head  and  without  looking  at 
her  cousin,  she  queried,  "  Have  we  not  talked  of 
love  enough  for  one  day  ?  I  confess  I  grow  some 
what  weary  of  the  subject,"  and  then,  with  a  glance 
over  her  shoulder,  "  And  tell  me,  who  may  these 
gentlemen  be  coming  towards  us  down  the  garden 
path." 

The  young  man  turned  and  peered  up  through 
the  avenue  of  trees,  to  where,  with  the  trees  above 
them  and  about  them,  and  the  red  fagade  of  the 
house  a  glimmer  through  the  green,  two  gentlemen, 
alike  as  to  periwigged  heads,  frilled  waistcoats,  and 
ruffled  sleeves,  walked  arm  in  arm  together,  talking 
and  laughing  in  congenial,  friendly  fashion. 

"  They  are  our  fathers,  Evelyn,"  answered  the 
young  man ;  and  with  a  long-drawn  sigh  and  a  hint 
of  his  droll  smile  he  added  dryly,  "  I  '11  warrant 
they  '11  not  laugh  so  heartily  when  once  they  learn 
of  our  decision." 

Evelyn  echoed  his  sigh  with  one  of  her  soft,  flut- 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES.     55 

tering  ones,  and  then  remarked  half  playfully,  half 
seriously,  "  The  poor  dear  sirs !  Let  us  break  it 
to  them  as  gently  as  we  can." 

As  the  two  gentlemen  drew  near  the  honeysuckle 
gate,  Colonel  Byrd  was  heard  declaring,  "  I  do  not 
believe  that  we  would  ever  find  the  raising  and  ex 
portation  of  hemp  of  profit  to  us.  Labor  is  so 
much  dearer  here  than  in  Riga  and  other  hemp- 
raising  countries  of  the  East,  and  freight  is  so 
much  higher.  The  price  that  makes  the  hemp- 
raisers  of  the  East  rich  would  ruin  us.  And  even 
if  this  was  not  so,  and  if  the  king  would  buy  our 
hemp  at  a  paying  price,  the  merchants  would  man 
age  to  load  our  hemp  with  so  many  charges  that 
they  would  run  away  with  the  greater  part  of  the 
profit.  Ours  would  be  the  case  of  the  poor  fishing- 
hawk  upon  whom  the  bald  eagle  pounces  down  and 
robs  of  the  fish  which  the  hawk  has  been  at  such 
pains  to  catch."  And  then  observing  his  daughter 
and  young  Custis,  the  Colonel  broke  off,  "But 
speaking  of  home  products,  here,  if  I  mistake  not, 
are  some  things  of  our  own  raising  —  are  not  these 
our  son  and  daughter,  brother  Custis?" 

"Aye,"  returned  the  other,  "and  let  us  hope 
they  will  repay  the  care  and  cost  that  we  have  put 
upon  them  better  than  would  the  hemp." 

Both  fathers  began  a  jesting  laugh  that  ended 
suddenly  at  sight  of  the  sober  faces  before  them. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  the  elder  Custis,  after  a 
pause,  "  we  do  not  meet  with  a  very  warm  recep- 


56  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

tion;  "  and  Colonel  Byrd  declared,  "  By  their  looks 
they  seem  to  bid  us  go.  Come,  let  us  stay  no 
longer  in  a  company  where  we  are  not  appre 
ciated."  The  two  gentlemen  made  a  move  to 
pass  through  the  gate  and  out  upon  the  river 
road. 

Evelyn  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her  father's 
sleeve,  and  Daniel,  after  glancing  at  the  girl  who 
stood  silent  with  downcast  eyes,  waiting  for  him 
to  speak,  drew  himself  together  and  said,  sturdily, 
"  Gentlemen,  you  find  us  dull  and  mute.  'T  is 
because  we  dread  to  speak  and  tell  you  something 
that  will  disappoint  you,  that  will  shatter  a  hope 
that  you  have  cherished  for  us  a  long  while." 

At  the  young  man's  words,  a  look  of  understand 
ing,  of  dark,  frowning  understanding,  appeared  on 
the  faces  of  the  two  elder  men.  Colonel  Byrd 
fixed  a  grave  gaze  upon  his  daughter,  and  Colonel 
Custis  turned  to  his  son,  inquiringly  sharply, 
"  How  now,  sirrah,  have  you  been  bungling  mat 
ters  ?  " 

At  this  Evelyn  raised  her  eyes  and  addressed 
herself  to  Colonel  Custis.  "There  has  been  no 
bungling,  uncle,"  she  said.  "  Your  son  has  made 
his  suit  to  me  like  a  gentleman,  and  as  you  would 
wish  to  have  him." 

"  And  you  have  refused  it,  Evelyn  ?  "  questioned 
her  father ;  "  and  on  what  ground,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  His  love  is  not  of  the  sort  to  satisfy  me,"  she 
answered  with  a  touch  of  pride. 


"EVELYN,   I    WONDER    IF   YOU    WILL   EVER    LOVE." 


THE   SECRET  OF  THE   TREES.  57 

Colonel  Byrd's  arched  brows  went  upward,  seem 
ing  to  inquire,  "  Is  there  any  love  under  the  sun 
that  can  satisfy  you  ?  " 

Colonel  Custis  scowled,  uttered  a  low-voiced,  in 
articulate  imprecation,  and  turned  on  his  heel, 
motioning  his  son  to  follow  ;  and  as  the  two  started 
up  the  path  together,  he  called  back  over  his 
shoulder,  "  Since  't  is  the  girl  who  balks,  brother 
Byrd,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  have  long  since 
learned  the  futility  of  all  attempt  at  reason  or 
argument  upon  a  woman." 

Left  alone,  Evelyn  and  her  father  stood  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  Evelyn  leaning  against  the 
gate,  her  eyes  downcast,  and  the  Colonel  regarding 
her  with  a  look  in  which  anger  and  pride,  affection 
and  sarcasm  blended. 

Pride  and  sarcasm  were  predominant,  when  at 
length  the  Colonel  remarked  :  "  Evelyn,  my  love, 
is  it  your  ambition  to  break  the  hearts  of  all  the 
men  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  ?  " 

Evelyn  lifted  her  eyes.     "  Don't,"  she  said. 

Given  a  better  view  of  her  face,  for  the  first  time 
her  father  observed  that  she  was  very  pale,  and  that 
her  eyes  shone  brilliantly  like  the  eyes  of  one  in 
pain.  He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  drew  her  nearer 
to  him.  "  Evelyn,  my  little  girl,"  he  cried,  "  can 
it  be  that  you  love  this  fellow,  this  cousin  of  yours  ? 
I  thought  that  it  was  Peterboro'  you  loved.  Now  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  know  who  it  is." 

Evelyn  gently  took  away  her  hand  and  turned 


58      THE  SECRET  OF  THE  TREES. 

from  him.  "  Don't  ask  me,"  she  said,  "  for  I  can 
not  tell  you,  —  not  even  you.  My  love  has  been  a 
secret  a  long  while.  Let  it  remain  a  secret,  as  much 
a  secret  as  that  which  the  trees  are  forever  whisper 
ing  over  our  heads.  And  who  can  tell  ?  —  perhaps 
in  time  my  secret  may  become  a  part  of  that  same 
eternal  secret ! " 

She  ended  with  a  smile  sadder  than  any  that  had 
gone  before  ;  and  then,  the  light  of  quiet  laughter 
breaking  through  the  trouble  in  her  eyes,  she  leaned 
against  her  father's  arm  and  looked  up  into  his 
face.  "  Come,  sir,"  she  ordered,  "  let  us  not  forget 
our  guests.  The  gentlemen,  I  know,  are  already 
pining  for  another  bottle  of  your  Canary  wine,  and 
the  ladies,  I  '11  be  bound,  are  at  this  very  minute 
peering  at  us  from  the  drawing-room  windows,  jeal 
ous  of  me,  no  doubt.  Come,  let  us  delay  no  longer, 
lest  we  bring  ourselves  into  disfavor  with  them 
all." 

Mistress  Evelyn  still  holds  court.  Her  portrait 
hangs  on  the  walls  of  Brandon,  on  the  lower  James, 
not  far  from  her  old  home  ;  and  in  immortal  beauty 
and  with  the  same  pensive  smile  upon  her  face,  the 
fair  scion  of  Westover  continues  to  win  hearts. 
Nor  is  that  all.  In  Westover,  the  old  home  itself, 
on  winter  nights,  when  the  Yule  log  burns  on  the 
hearth,  casting  grotesque  shadows  in  the  twilight, 
the  tap,  tap,  tap  of  her  slippers  may  be  heard,  and 
her  soft,  fluttering  sigh,  as  her  lady-like  ghost 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES.  59 

gently  steals  through  the  long  corridors  and  up  the 
broad  stairs. 

Evelyn  died  of  love,  tradition  says,  but  does  any 
one  know  for  love  of  whom  she  died?  Was  it 
Peterboro'  she  loved,  that  aged  gallant  of  Queen 
Anne's  court,  and  one  of  the  shrewdest  and  wittiest 
of  that  shrewd  and  witty  day  ?  Peterboro'  married 
the  singer  Anastasia  Robinson  and  died  the  hardy 
reprobate  that  he  had  lived,  "  laughing  and  mock 
ing  in  the  intervals  of.  agonizing  pain  and  entertain 
ing  a  company  of  ten  at  dinner  immediately  before 
the  end."  Or  was  it  her  cousin  Daniel  Custis  that 
Evelyn  loved,  him  with  whom  it  was  designed  by 
their  proud  and  wealthy  fathers  that  she  should 
make  a  marriage  of  convenience,  thus  uniting  two 
aristocratic  families  and  two  fine  estates  ?  Daniel 
Custis  married  a  woman  of  just  such  fresh,  simple, 
and  sturdy  loveliness  as  Evelyn  had  prophesied 
that  she  would  be,  little  Patsy  Dandridge,  she  who 
later  in  life  became  world-famous  as  the  wife  of 
George  Washington ;  and  he  died,  this  Daniel 
Custis,  quietly  and  peacefully  as  he  had  lived,  leav 
ing  behind  him  the  record  of  a  pure,  upright,  and 
industrious  life.  Or  was  it  neither  of  these  men, 
Peterboro'  or  Custis,  that  Evelyn  loved,  but  instead 
some  man  who,  nameless  in  history,  can  be  known 
merely  as  an  imaginary  creation  ?  We  cannot  say. 
We  only  know  that  Evelyn  never  married,  and 
that  while  still  young  and  beautiful  she  faded 
broken-hearted  to  the  grave. 


60  THE  SECRET  OF  THE   TREES. 

In  the  garden  of  Westover  Evelyn  lies  sleeping, 
a  melancholy  inscription  upon  her  tomb,  and  the 
oaks  that  whisper  over  her  grave  are  forever  telling 
and  yet  never  telling  the  secret  which,  tightly 
locked  in  her  heart,  died  with  her  and  now  lives 
only  as  a  part  of  the  eternal  secret  of  the  trees. 


IV. 
A   CROWN   THAT   STUNG. 

SUBEIAGE  slept  late  the  morning  follow 
ing  the  Governor's  ball.  As  she  took  her  first  peep 
at  day  through  the  shutters  that  darkened  her  room, 
she  saw  that  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  and 
shedding  a  clear,  warm  radiance  upon  the  little  city 
outspread  before  her  view.  Conspicuous  in  the 
morning  brightness  were  the  steeples  of  King's 
Chapel  and  of  the  Old  South  Meeting-house,  the 
English  colors  flying  from  the  province  house,  the 
new  and  imposing  hall  that  the  munificent  Mr. 
Faneuil  had  just  bestowed  upon  the  city,  and  the 
three  peaks  of  Beacon  Hill  that  marked  the  one 
end  of  colonial  Boston. 

Agnes  turned  from  the  window  with  what  was 
nearer  a  sigh  than  a  yawn,  as  she  reflected  on  the 
lateness  of  the  hour.  It  used  not  to  be  so  in  the 
old  days  at  Marblehead,  she  thought.  Then  she 
had  been  up  with  the  birds  and  in  time  to  see  the 
first  hint  of  morning  flushing  sky  and  ocean.  A 
feeling  of  freshness  and  of  vigor  had  come  with 
the  birth  of  each  new  day,  and  her  burden  of 
poverty  and  toil  had  rested  lightly  on  her  strong, 
supple  shoulders.  Now  the  burden  had  slipped 

61 


62  A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG. 

from  her  shoulders,  she  had  undergone  a  change 
like  that  of  the  butterfly,  she  was  a  "  grand  "  lady. 
She  could  lie  sleeping  while  the  sun  went  on  its 
course  unattended.  She  needed  only  to  air  her 
pretty  wings  in  the  sunshine  and  to  sip  honey  from 
the  flowers,  and  her  day's  work  was  done.  But 
was  she  any  the  more  fortunate  in  her  butterfly 
state,  she  wondered,  than  when  she  had  grubbed, 
a  dingy  little  worm  in  the  dust? 

She  looked  at  the  gown  of  cream-colored  silk, 
the  fair  creation  that  had  won  the  admiration  of 
the  men  and  the  envy  of  the  women  at  the  ball. 
It  was  lying  carelessly  upon  a  chair,  just  as  she 
had  left  it  the  night  before.  She  looked  at  the 
roses  that  had  nodded  from  among  her  dark  curls 
and  of  which  it  had  been  whispered  that,  beautiful 
as  they  were,  they  could  not  match  the  roses  in 
her  cheeks.  They  were  withering  on  her  dressing- 
table  in  the  midst  of  jewel-box  and  powder-puff, 
of  mirror,  fan,  and  gloves.  She  looked  at  her 
reflection  in  the  mirror,  her  dark,  radiant  loveli 
ness,  and  she  recalled  certain  words  that  she  had 
overheard  when,  in  the  cream-colored  gown  and 
with  the  roses  in  her  hair,  leaning  on  her  guardian's 
arm  and  happy  in  his  approving  smile,  she  had 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  Governor's  ball-room 
and  the  world  therein  assembled  —  a  world  which 
in  a  small  provincial  way  so  perfectly  reproduced 
the  fashion,  pride,  and  courtly  consequence  of  the 
world  across  the  sea. 


A     CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  63 

"What  beauty!"  one  of  colonial  Boston's  gal 
lants  had  exclaimed,  and  Agnes  had  been  forced 
to  blush,  so  long  and  admiring  had  been  his  gaze. 

"Yes,"  an  aristocratic  dame  had  answered,  in 
coolly  critical  tone,  "  but  it  may  prove  her  undoing." 

And  Agnes,  poor  girl,  had  understood  the  dark 
hint.  As  a  butterfly,  she  was  learning  to  under 
stand  much  of  which,  as  a  dingy  little  worm,  she 
had  never  dreamed,  and  the  new  understanding 
was  not  wholly  beautiful. 

Agnes  ate  her  breakfast  with  a  preoccupied  air 
that  morning,  watered  her  flowers  with  less  of  love 
than  she  had  ever  before  shown  them,  and  sat 
down  to  her  harpsichord  and  went  through  her  ex 
ercises  in  a  mechanical  way  that  proved  her  heart 
was  not  in  her  playing.  She  was  curled  up  among 
the  cushions  in  the  window-seat  of  her  parlor,  her 
own  special  parlor  in  the  boarding-house  that 
served  as  her  temporary  home,  and  was  reading 
"  Pamela,"  the  tale  that  had  so  often  charmed  her 
and  moved  her  to  tears,  but  for  which  she  had  only 
a  half  interest  that  morning,  when  a  knock,  that 
was  apologetic  and  autocratic  at  the  same  time, 
announced  her  tutor. 

With  a  cool  nod,  Agnes  received  the  worthy 
Mr.  Peter  Pelham,  he  who  had  recently  returned 
from  foreign  parts  with  a  store  of  foreign  learning, 
grace,  and  art  which  it  was  his  business  to  impart 
at  a  high  rate  of  interest  to  the  rising  generation 
of  Boston's  elect.  And  while  Mr.  Pelham  was 


64  A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG. 

laying  aside  his  walking-stick  and  his  three-cor 
nered  hat  and  carefully  smoothing  his  immaculate 
white  neck-band  and  wrist-bands,  Agnes  threw 
down  her  book  and  rose  slowly  to  drop  the  courtesy 
that  came,  as  a  somewhat  tardy  answer,  to  the  pro 
found  bow  which  her  tutor  had  made  upon  enter 
ing. 

"  Good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Pelham,"  she  remarked, 
looking  not  at  him,  but  out  of  the  window.  "'Tis 
a  pity  you  have  put  yourself  to  the  trouble  of 
coming  this  morning.  I  shall  not  take  any  lesson 
to-day." 

Mr.  Pelham  lifted  his  eyes  with  an  autocratic 
look  that  seemed  to  say,  "  What  new  whimsey  is 
this  ?  "  But  Agnes  was  beyond  the  age  that  trem 
bles  at  the  schoolmaster,  and  Mr.  Pelham's  eyes 
fell  to  the  floor  apologetically.  "  This  will  make 
two  lessons  within  a  week  that  you  have  missed, 
Miss  Surriage,"  he  observed,  not  without  the  in 
sistent  note  of  the  pedagogue.  "  You  cannot  ex 
pect  to  progress  very  rapidly  in  your  music  at  such 
a  rate." 

Agnes  made  a  motion  of  impatience  and  petu- 
lancy.  "  You  know  that  I  can  never  play  when  I 
am  not  in  the  mood  for  playing,"  she  retorted. 

Mr.  Pelham  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  with 
the  manner  of  one  who  yields  to  a  spoiled  child, 
he  went  to  take  up  the  walking-stick  and  hat  that 
he  had  laid  aside. 

Agnes  turned  to  him  quickly.     "  Stay  a  moment, 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  65 

Mr.  Pelham,"  she  said.     "  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
to  ask  you  some  questions." 

She  seated  herself  beside  a  pretty  little  slim- 
legged,  highly  polished  table  of  a  style  of  furniture 
very  much  in  vogue  at  that  date  in  colonial  Boston, 
and  motioned  for  him  to  take  the  seat  on  the  further 
side. 

On  the  table  between  them,  and  almost  hiding 
them  from  each  other,  stood  a  tall  vase  filled  with 
roses  —  red  roses,  such  as  those  which  had  nodded 
from  Agnes'  dark  curls  at  the  ball  the  night  be 
fore.  Agnes  drew  one  of  the  roses  from  the  vase 
and  began  toying  with  it  upon  the  table. 

"Mr.  Pelham,"  she  began,  "you  are  a  very  wise 
man  —  you  have  travelled  and  read  and  studied  — 
you  know  a  great  deal  about  a  great  many  things." 
She  spoke  part  assertively,  part  inquiringly,  and 
paused  as  if  desiring  a  confirmation  of  her  state 
ment. 

The  schoolmaster  dropped  his  eyes  in  apologetic 
fashion,  but  a  smile  of  pedagogic  vanity  played 
about  his  mouth.  "I  trust  that  I  do  not  shame 
the  dignity  of  my  calling,"  he  replied,  with  a  little 
deprecatory  cough. 

Agnes,  busy  with  her  own  thoughts,  seemed  only 
half  to  heed  his  answer.  There  was  wistfulness  in 
her  look,  as  though  she  were  hoping  to  sound  un 
tried  depths  of  knowledge  in  the  worthy  Mr.  Pel- 
ham's  scholarly  brain.  "I  am  learning  a  lesson 
outside  of  my  books  and  my  music  and  dancing," 


66  A     CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

she  said.  "  I  suppose  one  should  call  it  the  lesson 
of  life.  I  am  learning  the  meaning  of  rank  and 
blood  and  title.  I  am  learning  that  a  stamp  of 
the  crown  upon  a  piece  of  paper  is  as  sacred  as 
one's  honor,  that  a  coach  with  armorial  bearings 
can  carry  one  through  the  world  more  proudly  than 
can  virtue  and  justice  and  prudence,  and  that  the 
line  that  divides  those  who  have  the  proper  stamp 
on  their  paper  and  the  proper  symbols  on  their 
coach  from  those  who  have  not  is  more  rigid,  more 
binding,  more  impassable  than  the  line  that  divides 
the  good  from  the  bad.  Do  I  read  my  lesson 
aright,  Mr.  Pelham,  or  do  I  read  it  crookedly? 
And  if  I  read  it  aright  and  't  is  true  what  I  have 
said,  what  is  it  that  has  turned  the  world  topsy 
turvy?"  The  wistf ulness  of  her  look  was  intense 
as  she  glanced  past  the  roses  to  the  school-teacher. 
Mr.  Pelham  answered  the  look  with  one  of  supe 
rior  wisdom.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  look  of  superior 
wisdom,  it  is  probable  that  he  knew  very  little  of 
what  was  troubling  the  girl.  Of  the  facts  of  her 
history  he  was  not  ignorant.  He  knew  as  did  the 
rest  of  colonial  Boston  that  she  was  of  low  birth  (of 
low  birth,  that  is,  as  interpreted  by  the  aristocrats 
of  the  day),  that  her  parents  were  poor,  hard-work 
ing  fisher-folks,  and  that  she  herself  had  been  a  scrub 
girl  at  the  Fountain  Inn  of  Marblehead  and  had 
thence  been  lifted  by  the  generous  hand  of  Bos 
ton's  young  collector,  Mr.  Harry  Frankland,  who 
had  appointed  himself  her  guardian,  to  the  place 


A    CROWN    THAT    STUNG.  67 

she  now  occupied,  that  of  a  well-bred,  well-edu 
cated,  thoroughly  refined  and  cultivated  lady. 
Mr.  Pelham  knew  too  what  all  of  colonial  Boston 
did  not  know,  —  for  Agnes  was  of  a  modest,  retiring 
disposition,  —  that  she  was  a  girl  of  unusual  talents 
and  mental  aptitude.  In  music,  reading,  and  draw 
ing  she  had  shown  quite  remarkable  proficiency, 
and  she  was,  indeed,  the  most  creditable  of  all  his 
pupils. 

All  this  Mr.  Pelham  knew.  But  he  did  not 
know  —  for  how  could  he,  unimaginative,  narrow- 
minded  pedant  that  he  was  —  the  doubts  and  ques 
tionings,  the  regrets,  the  fears  and  longings  that 
had  come  with  the  new  position,  the  battlings  of 
heart  and  conscience  that  were  close  at  hand. 

Yet,  although  he  did  not  know,  Mr.  Pelham's 
look  of  superior  wisdom  never  faltered,  and  with  a 
patronizing  smile  he  answered,  "  You  are  young, 
Miss  Surriage,  and  't  is  the  fault  of  youth  to  cry- 
out  against  the  injustices  of  the  world.  If  you  had 
lived  as  long  as  I,  you  would  know  that  the  world 
is  not  turned  topsy-turvy,  but  continues  to  revolve, 
an  orderly  and  well-regulated  world  in  its  accus 
tomed  orbit;  that  every  station  in  life,  however 
humble,  has  its  own  uses  and  advantages  ;  and  that 
virtue,  though  't  is  not  always  so  speedily  recog 
nized  as  the  stamp  on  the  paper  and  the  symbol 
on  the  coach,  is  nevertheless  always  virtue  and  as 
such  is  respected  if  not  according  to  its  merit,  at 
least  according  to  its  wont." 


68  A     CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

The  schoolmaster's  words  had  a  very  correct, 
oracular  ring,  but  they  failed  to  satisfy  Agnes. 
She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  "  I  see  you 
do  not  understand,"  she  said.  Then  she  rose. 
"  But  I  keep  you  from  your  business,  Mr.  Pelham," 
she  continued.  "  I  will  not  detain  you  longer  in 
talk  that  is  of  no  moment.  Go  to  your  other  pupils. 
They  will  stay  within  the  prescribed  school-room 
limits  of  books,  music,  and  dancing.  They  will 
not  take  to  playing  truant  as  I  have  done  in  a  tan 
gle  of  foolish  questions.  Good-day  to  you,  Mr. 
Pelham,"  and  she  ended  with  a  low,  graceful  cour 
tesy  which  Mr.  Pelham  himself  had  taught  her 
and  which  was  the  one  approved  by  the  fashionable 
Boston  of  the  day. 

There  was  something  authoritative,  almost 
queenly  about  the  girl.  Indeed,  those  who  had 
known  her  in  the  old  days  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  identify  the  poor  fisher-maid  of  Marblehead 
with  this  dark  beauty  of  the  drawing-room  who 
spread  her  rustling,  brocaded  skirts  in  such  a  regal 
fashion  and  addressed  the  schoolmaster  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  hauteur  in  voice  and  manner. 

The  schoolmaster  had  risen  too,  and  stood  look 
ing  at  her  rather  amazedly.  To  him  she  was  then, 
as  ever,  an  enigma  written  in  a  language  of  which, 
in  spite  of  his  extensive  linguistic  learning,  he  had 
no  knowledge.  In  his  ignorance  he  took  refuge  in 
a  sarcastic  smile.  "  Good-day  to  you,  Miss  Sur- 
riage,"  he  returned.  "  Since  I  can  be  of  no  further 


A     CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  69 

service  to  you  I  will,  as  you  suggest,  take  my 
leave."  He  leisurely  gathered  up  hat  and  walking- 
stick,  and  was  in  the  act  of  departure.  On  the 
threshold  of  the  door  he  turned.  "  When  next  I 
call,  Miss  Surriage,  I  trust  that  I  shall  find  you  in 
the  mood  for  a  music  lesson,"  and  he  elaborately 
bowed  himself  out  of  the  room. 

When  he  was  gone  Agnes  bowed  as  he  had 
bowed,  and  with  a  perfect  mimicry  of  his  voice 
and  manner  echoed  his  suave  "  Good-day  to  you, 
Miss  Surriage,  and  when  next  I  call  I  trust  that  I 
shall  find  you  in  the  mood  for  a  music  lesson." 
Then  she  broke  into  a  low  laugh  that  was  not  very 
hearty.  He  who  was  now  so  smilingly  patroniz 
ing,  she  thought,  would  be  among  the  first  to  point 
the  finger  of  shame  at  her,  if  ever  she  should  lose 
her  way  upon  the  straight  and  narrow  path  and 
wander  from  it.  She  could  easily  fancy  him  frown 
ing  her  down,  and  with  him  her  other  tutors  and  her 
schoolmates,  those  gentle,  high-born  maidens,  who 
had  always  been  her  friends  rather  half-heartedly, 
and  had  praised  her,  her  work,  her  music,  her 
reading,  and  her  drawing,  with  reservations,  remem 
bering  the  story  of  her  parentage  and  toil,  and 
regarding  her  with  eyes  of  curious  wonder. 

And  it  was  not  only  her  school  world  that  she 
pictured  frowning  her  down.  Even  more  vividly 
she  saw  herself  condemned  to  social  ostracism  by 
the  world  of  fashion,  —  the  Amorys  and  Apthorps, 
the  Hutchinsons,  Prices,  Shiiieys,  and  Auchmutys, 


70  A    CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

—  those  men  and  women  who,  attired  in  imported 
velvets,  silks,  and  satins,  inhabited  the  north  or 
court  end  of  the  city;  who  worshipped  at  King's 
Chapel,  the  Episcopal  church  of  Puritan  Boston ; 
who  held  the  money,  offices,  and  power  of  the 
colony;  who  were  allied  to  the  first  families  of 
England,  and  who  represented  rank  and  royalty  in 
the  newfound  Western  home. 

In  spite  of  its  historic  prettiness  and  quaintness, 
that  little,  old-time,  provincial  world  of  fashion 
was  a  narrow,  trivial  sort  of  world.  Distinct  from 
the  sturdier  Puritan  stratum  of  Boston  society,  and 
not  yet  grown  to  a  sufficient  manhood  to  resent  the 
tyranny  of  the  mother  country,  it  scrupulously  fol 
lowed  the  follies  as  the  fashions  of  the  world  across 
the  sea.  It  was  a  proud,  insolent,  all-regal  world, 
and  to  the  girl  who  had  come  thither,  fresh  from 
her  seaside  home,  and  with  a  spirit  as  free  as  the 
air  she  had  breathed  and  as  broad  as  the  ocean  view 
upon  which  she  had  gazed  as  a  child,  it  oft-times 
proved  a  prison. 

But  though  to  Agnes  this  world  was  oft-times  a 
prison,  to  the  world  she  was  a  novelty,  something 
to  interest  it,  to  set  its  gossip-loving  tongue  to 
wagging.  Therefore  she  found  herself  petted, 
flattered,  courted,  with  reservations  to  be  sure  such 
as  those  withheld  by  her  schoolmates,  but  with  a 
genuine  enthusiasm.  And  while  Agnes  did  not  at 
all  depend  for  her  happiness  upon  such  benefits  as 
this  petty  little  world  could  offer,  she  could  not 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  71 

endure  the  thought,  so  galling  to  a  proud,  sensitive 
nature,  that  this  same  petty  little  world  might,  upon 
provocation,  turn  its  back  upon  her  and  leave  her 
to  endure  the  daily  torture  of  social  ignominy. 

Yet  even  more  than  the  frowns  of  her  school 
world  and  the  world  of  fashion,  Agnes  dreaded  the 
accusations  of  her  own  conscience  and  the  shame 
that,  should  she  take  a  step  unsanctioned  by  re 
ligion,  would  be  put  upon  her  by  her  old  friends, 
those  rough  but  honest  fisher-folk  of  Marblehead. 
At  thought  of  those  old  friends  and  especially  at 
thought  of  her  parents  and  her  younger  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  were  so  admiring,  almost  reverential, 
in  their  love  for  her,  Agnes  threw  herself  upon  the 
window  seat  of  her  parlor,  her  parlor  that  in  spite 
of  its  every  luxury  could  not  bring  happiness,  and 
gave  way  to  a  storm  of  passionate  weeping. 

Yet  even  while  she  wept,  her  heart  cried  to 
Frankland,  to  him  whom  she  had  been  taught  to 
call  her  guardian,  who  had  taken  her  from  the 
humble  home  where  she  had  known  no  better  than 
to  be  happy,  and  raised  her  to  her  present  pinnacle 
of  genteel  grandeur,  who  was  the  cause  of  all  her 
doubts  and  questionings  and  heart-breaking  regrets, 
but  whom,  alas  for  her  peace  of  mind  and  her  future 
welfare,  she  loved  in  a  measure  that  could  out 
weigh  the  doubts  and  questionings  and  heart 
breaking  regrets,  the  dazzling  though  prison-like 
world  of  fashion  and  the  old  loves  and  the  old  life 
as  well.  She  knew  that  there  were  thorns  in  the 


72  A    CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

crown  he  offered  her,  thorns  and  nettles  that  would 
scratch  and  sting  and  smirch  her  brow,  but  she 
could  almost  forget  the  thorns  and  nettles,  she 
thought,  while  wearing  those  bright  blossoms  that 
made  the  crown  beautiful.  Her  heart  told  her  that 
it  was  not  his  fault  that  the  thorns  and  nettles  were 
there,  not  his  fault  that  he  could  not  marry  her,  but 
must  sacrifice  his  honorable  and  generous  impulses 
to  the  impassable  barriers  of  rank,  family,  and 
ancestral  pride.  The  world  was  turned  topsy-turvy 
and  her  own  vision  of  right  and  wrong  had  become 
blurred,  but  she  could  not  blame  him  that  these 
things  were  so. 

He  was  her  friend,  as  from  the  first  so  to  the 
last,  she  was  sure  of  that,  her  friend  certain  to 
remain  true  when  the  world  frowned  and  one  by 
one  other  friends  fell  from  her.  He  was  not  of  the 
class  who  love  lightly  and  forget.  He  was  a  brave, 
noble,  knightly  soul.  This  she  knew  as  she  knew 
her  catechism  and  her  Lord's  prayer.  Once  she 
had  believed  him  of  the  stuff  of  which  fairy  tales 
are  woven ;  but  that  was  when,  a  gold-laced,  berib- 
boned,  beruffled,  and  bewigged  gentleman,  he  had 
flashed  upon  her  toilsome  horizon  at  the  Fountain 
Inn  where,  in  a  pool  of  soap-suds,  she  had  knelt 
scrubbing  the  tavern  floor ;  and  he  had  smiled  upon 
her  and  looked  with  pity  on  her  bare  feet  and 
dropped  into  her  hand  the  gold  coin  that  was  to 
buy  her  first  pair  of  shoes.  Of  course  that  had 
happened  long  ago,  had  become  a  part  of  a  past 


m 


THUS    THE    TRAGIC 


BATTLE    OF    HER    YOUNG    LIFE   WAS    FOUGHT. 


A     CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  73 

existence,  and  she  had  lived  to  see  her  godlike 
hero  descend  from  his  pedestal  and  mingle  a  man 
with  other  men.  Yet  he  had  been  always  so  gen 
erous,  so  courtly,  and  so  kind,  that  there  still  hung 
about  him  a  reminiscence  of  the  divine  halo.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  he  had  grown  less  godly  as 
that  he  had  grown  more  human.  And  when  she 
thought  of  the  night  before,  of  the  ball,  and  re 
membered  his  touch  on  her  hair  and  his  kiss,  she 
knew  not  whether  she  liked  it  better  or  not  so  well 
that  her  god  had  become  so  very  much  a  man. 

And  the  crown  he  offered  her,  should  she  put  it 
from  her  or  should  she  stoop  to  receive  it  ?  Should 
she  give  up  him  who  was  sun,  moon,  and  stars  to 
her,  or  those  other  little  worlds  which  were  but  a 
dark  corner  of  the  universe  in  comparison,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  threatened  to  grow  great  with 
flashings  of  angry  light  and  rumblings  as  of  dire 
earthquakes  ?  The  need  and  the  impossibility  of 
answer  brought  on  a  fresh  storm  of  weeping. 
Thus,  with  sad  waverings  and  yearnings,  and  trials 
of  the  spirit,  and  with  piteous  gropings  for  the 
light,  the  tragic  battle  of  her  young  life  was  fought. 

The  morning  wore  away  and  at  length  the  noise 
of  footsteps  upon  the  flagstone  walk  beneath  the 
window,  growing  more  frequent,  told  that  the 
business  world  was  returning  home  from  Town 
House  and  Custom  House,  Province  House  and 
Market,  for  the  recreating  quiet  of  the  noon  hour 
and  for  dinner. 


74  A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG. 

Agnes  was  calm  again.  She  had  bathed  her 
eyes  and  smoothed  her  tumbled  hair  and  was  sit 
ting  curled  up  among  the  cushions  of  her  window 
seat  once  more.  She  had,  however,  abandoned  all 
pretence  of  reading.  "  Pamela  "  lay  face  downward 
on  the  floor,  telling  a  tale  other  than  that  which 
had  proceeded  from  the  wonder-working  brain  of 
the  renowned  Mr.  Richardson. 

The  sound  of  jest  and  laughter  from  a  merry 
group  of  men  passing  below  came  up  to  Agnes. 
And  just  beneath  her  window,  some  one  of  the 
group  loitering  behind,  as  the  rest  went  on  down 
the  street,  was  heard  calling  after  them,  "  At  the 
'  Orange  Tree,'  six  o'clock  to-night,  gentlemen. 
Do  not  fail.  We  must  give  the  Captain  a  rousing 
welcome  and  show  him  how  handsomely  we  do 
things  here  in  the  provinces." 

Agnes  scarcely  heard  the  answering  cheer  and 
laugh.  At  sound  of  the  voice,  strong,  clear,  and 
ringing,  that  of  a  healthy,  happy  manhood,  a  glad 
light  more  eloquent  than  a  smile  had  lighted  her 
face.  She  opened  the  door  hospitably  and  with 
drew  to  the  recess  of  the  window,  and  stood  there, 
with  her  back  to  the  door,  joyously  anticipating 
and  yet  dreading  the  coming  interview. 

A  moment  more  and  Mr.  Harry  Frankland  stood 
on  the  threshold.  He  was  very  fine  that  morning 
in  powdered  wig  and  gold  lace  coat,  brocaded 
vest,  ruffled  sleeves,  and  silver  shoe-buckles.  He 
looked  what  in  truth  he  was,  a  handsome,  brave, 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  75 

and  gallant  gentleman.  His  three-cornered  hat 
was  raised  to  his  heart  in  the  act  of  bowing,  and  a 
pleased,  anticipatory  smile  parted  his  lips,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  picture  framed  in  the  window,  the 
slender,  graceful  figure  in  the  pale  corn-colored 
gown  against  the  rich  blue  damask  of  the  hang 
ings. 

Agnes  turned,  the  glad  light  still  on  her  face, 
and  Frankland  went  forward  and  took  her  hands  in 
his,  and  looked  with  long,  lover-like  gaze  into  her 
eyes.  But  he  did  not  kiss  her ;  a  kiss  was  still  a 
sacred  thing  between  them,  not  to  be  given  or 
taken  lightly.  Nor  did  they  speak  for  a  moment. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side  upon  the  window-seat, 
and  then  Frankland  said,  "  I  could  not  go  by  with 
out  stopping  to  see  how  you  had  survived  the  ball. 
Your  dissipations  have  not  robbed  you  of  your 
beauty,  little  lady.  I  know  not  whether  I  like  you 
better  as  you  were  last  night  in  the  ball  gown,  with 
the  paint  and  powder,  the  jewels  and  the  flowers, 
and  amid  the  bright,  laughing,  dancing  world,  or  as 
I  find  you  now  in  the  dimness  and  quiet  of  your 
own  parlor,  clothed  in  this  simple  morning  gown, 
your  own  dark  loveliness  your  one  jewel." 

"  I  am  better  as  I  am,"  Agnes  answered  quietly, 
modestly,  as  though  disclaiming  all  right  to  the 
magnificence  of  the  ballroom. 

"  Yes,"  declared  her  companion,  "  you  are  better 
as  you  are,  I  vow ;  for  you  are  alone,  I  may  have 
you  to  myself.  Last  night  you  were  beset  by  a 


76  A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG. 

host  of  eager  young  gallants  and  I,  your  old  guard 
ian,  was  quite  pushed  to  the  wall." 

Agnes  must  smile  at  that.  Her  "  old  guardian," 
as  it  chanced,  was  not  yet  turned  of  thirty.  Indeed, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  full  white  wig  that  he  wore 
and  that  hid  his  bonny  brown  hair,  with  his  fresh 
English  complexion  and  his  laughter-haunted  eyes, 
one  might  have  deemed  him  a  veritable  boy. 

Agnes  shook  her  head  reprovingly  at  him.  "  An 
old  guardian,"  she  remarked,  "  would  know  better 
than  to  speak  in  such  flattering  terms  to  his  young 
ward.  You  are  like  to  spoil  me,  sir.  Pray  let  us 
change  this  very  personal  topic.  Tell  me,  what  is 
the  news  about  town  to-day  ?  " 

At  that  Frankland  began  talking  enthusiastically 
of  the  arrival  in  Boston  of  his  brother,  the  popular 
young  commander  of  the  English  frigate  "  Rose," 
and  of  the  entertainments  that  were  being  set  on 
foot  in  his  honor  ;  of  the  dinner  that  was  to  begin 
them  and  was  to  be  given  by  himself  that  evening 
at  the  Orange  Tree  Inn,  and  to  which  the  elect  of 
Boston's  young  men  were  bidden. 

Like  all  his  friends  at  home,  Frankland  declared 
laughingly,  the  Captain  imagined  the  provinces  a 
wilderness,  and  believed  that  he  (Mr.  Harry  Frank- 
land)  must  be  bereft  of  his  senses,  that  he  could 
remain  contented  in  them  so  long.  He  was  deter 
mined  the  Captain  should  undergo  a  change  of 
mind  before  sailing  away,  should  carry  back  a 
good  report  to  England.  He  turned  proudly  to 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  77 

Agnes.  Might  he  bring  his  brother  to  see  her? 
His  brother  must  know  what  a  rare  beautiful 
flower  was  blooming  in  these  Arcadian  wilds. 

Agnes  looked  sadly  away.  Frankland's  mention 
of  his  brother  renewed  that  trouble  of  the  spirit 
which  his  own  presence  had  for  a  moment  dis 
pelled.  To  her,  this  brother  stood  for  the  Frank- 
land  family  and  for  the  obstacles  that  family  would 
raise  in  opposition  to  a  marriage  between  Mr. 
Harry  Frankland  and  herself  —  obstacles  such  as 
rank,  fortune,  and  a  future  baronetcy,  which  things, 
alas,  in  the  worldly  world  where  their  lot  was  cast, 
counted  for  more  than  natural  dictates  of  the  heart 
and  manly  honor. 

Frankland  was  quick  to  detect  the  girl's  change 
of  mood  and  expression.  "Why  do  you  sigh, 
child?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "Do  you  not  like 
my  praises  ?  " 

"  If  only  they  were  that,"  she  answered,—  "  praises 
to  a  child.  But  I  am  no  longer  a  child  and  you 
no  longer  praise  me  as  a  child.  I  am  learning  and 
you  are  helping  to  teach  me  the  lesson  of  sorrow 
that  makes  me  a  woman." 

Frankland  took  her  hand  in  his  and  began  strok 
ing  it  tenderly.  Quick-coming  shadows  had  chased 
away  the  laughter  from  his  eyes.  "  I  teach  you 
sorrow,  Agnes,  — God  forgive  me!  "  he  murmured 
in  a  tone  of  sharp  contrition. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  home,"  continued 
A^nes,  with  her  eyes  fixed  as  if  on  imaginary  pict- 


78  A     CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

ures,  "and  of  my  childhood  days  and  of  the  old 
friends." 

Still  stroking  her  hand,  "  You  love  them,  Agnes, 
I  know,"  said  Frankland ;  and  then  after  an  elo 
quent  little  pause,  "  Better  than  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  answer  was  a  quick  pressure  of  the  hand 
and  a  look  more  expressive  than  words.  She 
rose  abruptly,  —  abruptness  was  a  part  of  her  in 
tense,  impulsive  nature,  —  walked  the  length  of 
the  room  and  back,  while  Frankland  followed  her 
compassionately  with  his  eyes,  and  stood  before  him 
regarding  him  with  a  look  of  piteous  appeal. 

"  Why  were  you  born  a  gentleman  ?  "  she  asked 
helplessly ;  "  or  why  was  not  I  born  a  lady  ?  " 

Frankland  took  her  hands,  kissed  them,  and 
looked  up,  sorrowing  with  her  and  for  her,  into  her 
face.  "  Or  why,  dear  love,  were  we  not  born  in 
that  golden  age,"  he  said,  with  a  sadly  tender^ 
sadly  playful  smile,  "before  the  careless  nymph 
Pandora  opened  her  box  and  let  escape  pride, 
insolence,  vainglory,  and  all  those  other  ills  that 
have  made  this  world  uninhabitable  for  two  loving 
hearts  such  as  ours  ?  " 

With  a  look  of  piteous  appeal  still  in  her  eyes 
and  in  the  same  helpless  tone  Agnes  continued, 
"  What  shall  we  do  ?  Whither  shall  we  turn  ?  Oh, 
we  are  like  two  children  going  hand  in  hand  into  a 
dark  room,  knowing  not  where  to  look  for  light 
nor  how  we  may  come  out." 

Her  words,  her  tone,  and,  more  than  these,  the 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  79 

sorrow  in  her  eyes,  stirred  Frankland  to  the  very 
springs  of  his  manhood.  With  a  quick,  com 
passionate,  protecting  gesture,  he  rose  and  took 
the  girl  in  his  arms  and  raised  her  face  to  his. 

"  Agnes,"  he  said,  "  look  into  my  eyes.  Tell  me 
that  you  know  that  however  dark  the  rest  of  the 
world  may  prove,  the  light  you  see  there  will 
never  fail.  Tell  me  that  you  believe  in  the  con 
stancy  of  my  love." 

Agnes  looked  into  the  clear  blue  depths  of  her 
lover's  eyes,  saw  there  truth  and  enduring  love  and 
loyalty,  and  was  comforted.  With  a  swift,  beauti 
ful  motion  she  put  up  her  hand,  drew  down  his 
head,  and  pushing  back  his  hair,  kissed  him  once 
upon  the  forehead.  "Yes,"  she  answered,  "I 
know,  I  believe." 

Then  she  drew  away,  the  suggestion  of  tears, 
tears  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  in  her  manner, 
and  the  tears  sounded  in  her  voice  as  she  entreated, 
"  Go,  now,  dear  sir.  I  want  to  be  alone." 

When  Agnes  stooped  to  receive  the  crown  of 
her  guardian's  love,  she  had  not  failed  to  count  the 
cost.  And  alas  for  her,  poor  maid  of  Marblehead, 
the  cost  was  all  as  great  as  she  had  counted !  In 
Frankland's  lordly  home,  descriptions  of  which 
read  like  tales  of  some  mythical  mansion  rather 
than  of  what  was  once  a  part  of  our  colonial 
Boston,  she  lived  a  prisoner,  until  Frankland, 
chafing  at  the  slights  and  insults  put  upon  her  by 


80  A     CROWN    THAT    STUNG. 

the  world,  carried  her  off  to  an  Arcadian  paradise. 
Yet  even  at  Hopkinton,  then  a  charming  bit  of 
the  primeval  forest,  in  the  shadow  of  Wachusett 
and  Monadnock,  alone  with  nature  and  the  man 
she  loved,  there  were  occasional  prickings  and 
stingings  of  the  flesh ;  conscience  still  whispered 
accusingly  and  mutterings  from  the  world  pene 
trated  even  through  the  giant  box  that  hedged  the 
Arcadian  paradise  about.  In  England,  whither 
she  went  with  Frankland,  who  was  by  that  time 
Sir  Harry  Frankland,  baronet,  it  was  no  better. 
At  the  ancestral  home  fresh  ignominy  awaited 
her. 

Indeed,  it  was  not  until  Sir  Harry,  that  nonpa 
reil  of  eighteenth-century  knighthood,  who  through 
all  the  years  of  shame  and  suffering  had  remained 
unreproachable  in  love  and  loyalty,  not  until  he 
lifted  the  crown  that  stung  and  in  its  place  put 
one  thornless  and  nettleless  that  Agnes  attained 
the  happiness  which  is  innocence  and  lightness  of 
heart. 

And  the  story  of  her  recrowning  —  does  it  not 
read  like  an  elaborately  wrought  romance  ?  —  the 
earthquake  at  Lisbon;  Frankland's  tragic  part 
therein ;  his  rehearsal  of  his  sins  as  he  lay  helpless 
under  the  engulfing  ruins,  his  judgment  on  him 
self  for  the  wrong  he  had  done  the  woman  he 
loved,  and  his  determination  that,  should  he  live, 
he  would  right  that  wrong ;  Agnes'  frantic  search 
through  the  surging,  demolished  city  for  her  be- 


A    CROWN    THAT   STUNG.  81 

loved  one,  her  finding  and  rescuing  of  him ;  and  as 
the  romantic  climax  to  this  most  romantic  of  ro 
mances,  the  marriage  of  Agnes  Surriage  to  Sir  Harry 
Frankland,  baronet?  Could  Shakespeare  him 
self  have  done  better?  Surely  the  fate  that  guides 
our  destinies  is  a  mightier  dramatist  than  the 
mightiest  poet,  or  novelist,  or  playwright  among  us. 
Fate  touched  her  with  its  magic  wand,  and  she 
who  had  once  been  the  poor  fisher-maid  of  Marble- 
head  underwent  a  miraculous  change  and  became 
Lady  Frankland,  one  to  wield  the  sceptre  of  social 
dominion,  and  to  make  laws  and  maxims  for  the 
fashionable  world.  In  her  new  character  she  left 
the  realm  of  romance  and  entered  the  more  prosaic, 
and  yet  more  happy  region  of  every  day  life.  But 
as  a  last,  significant  reminder  of  that  same  realm 
of  romance  from  which  she  had  gone  forth,  it  should 
be  related  that  Lady  Frankland  wore  her  crown, 
her  thornless,  nettleless  one,  with  a  proud  humil 
ity  that  did  not  forget  past  martyrdom,  and  could 
be  kind  to  all  who,  like  herself,  had  lost  their  way 
and  wandered  from  the  straight  and  narrow  path. 


V. 

THE  SERVING  OF  A  LAGGARD  LOVER. 

A  LIGHT  breeze  fluttered  the  white  curtains  at 
the  windows.  With  only  the  brass  candlesticks 
on  the  dressing-table  giving  light,  it  was  comforta 
bly  cool  in  Hannah  Waldo's  pretty  blue  and  white 
boudoir.  Nevertheless  the  young  lady  of  the 
boudoir  plied  her  fan  vigorously.  There  was  anger 
in  its  motion,  anger  too  in  the  quick  tapping  of  her 
spangled  slippers  upon  the  floor,  and  anger  in  the 
flashings  of  her  dark  eyes  and  in  the  spots  of  bright 
color  that  glowed  in  her  cheeks  —  restrained,  lady 
like  anger  to  be  sure,  but  none  the  less  anger. 

In  Hannah's  lap  lay  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper. 
She  had  read  what  was  written  thereon  several 
times  already  that  day,  but  that  evening  she  must 
read  again.  As  she  smoothed  the  crumpled  lines 
and  glanced  over  the  now  familiar  words,  a  smile 
that  faintly  yet  unmistakably  suggested  scorn  was 
on  her  lips. 

Noiselessly,  save  for  the  soft  rustling  of  her  lute 
string  gown,  she  went  over  to  her  dressing-table. 
She  held  the  crumpled  bit  of  paper  over  the  flarne 
of  one  of  her  brass  candlesticks  and,  as  the  paper 
caught  fire  from  the  flame,  she  tossed  it  to  the  floor 

82 


THE  SERVING  OF  A  LAGGARD  LOVER.   83 

and  stamped  out  the  blaze  with  the  heel  of  one  of 
her  spangled  slippers. 

"He  shall  pay  for  this,"  she  said  under  her 
breath,  with  a  determined  tightening  of  her  lips. 

"  Hannah  !  "  It  was  Hannah's  married  sister, 
Mrs.  Isaac  Winslow,  who  spoke.  She  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  behind  Hannah.  A  light  wrap 
hung  loosely  on  her  shoulders.  From  her  flushed, 
flurried,  excited  appearance  it  was  evident  she  had 
just  arrived  and  in  a  hurry.  «  What  is  this  I  hear 
about  a  postponement  of  your  wedding  ?  "  she  in 
quired,  advancing  into  the  boudoir.  "  Isaac  came 
home  to  dinner  to-night  with  a  report  of  it.  T  is 
not  true,  I  hope." 

Without  turning,  Hannah  busied  herself  indus 
triously  among  the  jewels  on  her  dressing  table  in 
search  of  a  particular  ring. 

"Yes,  'tis  true,"  she  answered,  with  apparent 
indifference,  very  much  as  though  her  wedding  were 
a  matter  of  like  importance  with  the  weather. 

"  How  calmly  you  take  it !  "  exclaimed  her  sister, 
in  amazement,  seating  herself  upon  the  edge  of  one 
of  the  dainty  white  chairs  of  the  boudoir  —  Mrs. 
Winslow  never  seated  herself  comfortably  when 
she  was  excited.  "  Do  you  realize,  child,  that  the 
world  will  talk  more  than  ever?  " 

By  this  time  Hannah  had  found  the  ring.  She 
slipped  it  on  her  finger  and,  with  a  steadfast  reserve 
that  gave  the  impression  of  indifference,  she  turned 
and  faced  her  sister. 


84    THE  SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER. 

"  I  hardly  see  how  that  may  be,"  she  remarked 
dryly.  "  The  world  has  already  attended  to  me 
and  my  affairs  with  an  excess  of  devotion." 

Mrs.  Winslow  shook  her  head  ominously.  "  My 
dear,  you  don't  know  the  world,"  she  observed. 
"  The  world  never  talks  so  much  but  that  it  may 
talk  more." 

Hannah  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  as  much 
as  to  say  that  the  world  and  what  the  world  said 
were  of  small  moment  to  her.  "  Shall  we  go 
down  ? "  she  queried,  after  a  pause,  putting  the 
snuffer  over  one  of  the  candles  as  she  spoke. 
"  Isaac  came  with  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Winslow  answered,  somewhat  ab 
stractedly.  "  I  left  him  downstairs.  I  myself  could 
not  wait.  I  felt  that  I  must  come  directly  to 
you." 

"  'T  was  kind  of  you."  Hannah  spoke  in  a  formal 
tone,  and  dropped  the  snuffer  over  the  other  candle. 

On  the  stairway  Mrs.  Winslow,  whose  arm  was 
about  Hannah's  waist,  ventured  to  ask,  timorously, 
for  Hannah's  reserve  half  frightened  her,  "  Andrew, 
of  course,  has  some  good  cause  for  the  postpone 
ment?" 

Hannah  lifted  her  head  slightly  —  it  may  have 
been  in  disdain  —  and  answered,  "  He  wrote  that 
circumstances  had  occurred  that  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  defer  the  wedding  to  a  later  day."  As 
she  spoke  it  was  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that 
those  words  had  felt  the  flame  of  her  brass  candle- 


THE  SERVING  OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER.   85 

stick  and  lay,  burnt  to  a  cinder,  upon  the  floor  of 
her  boudoir. 

The  drawing-room  toward  which  Hannah  and 
her  sister  made  their  way  was  brilliantly  lighted. 
All  the  candles  in  the  sconces  and  the  chandeliers 
were  burning,  by  their  soft  radiance  touching  into 
lustre  the  prevailing  tints  of  pink  and  green  in 
carpet,  chairs,  and  darnask  wall-hangings. 

It  looked  its  best  by  candle-light,  this  quietly 
elegant  drawing-room  of  the  Waldo  mansion.  And 
it  always  looked  well.  There  were  those  who 
thought  it  the  finest  drawing-room  in  all  Boston, 
not  even  excepting  the  drawing-room  of  His  Ex 
cellency  Governor  Shirley.  It  was  so  very  aristo 
cratic.  Scarcely  an  evening  went  by  that  some 
few  of  Boston's  elect  did  not  come  thither  to  pass 
a  pleasant  hour  or  two  in  its  thoroughly  refined, 
thoroughly  high-toned  atmosphere. 

On  this  particular  evening,  the  elect  few  con 
sisted  almost  exclusively  of  relatives  and  intimate 
friends  of  the  Waldos.  In  one  corner  of  the  room, 
near  the  spinet,  Isaac  Winslow  was  speaking  with 
young  Mrs.  Sparhawk,  she  who  had  once  been 
Elizabeth  Pepperell,  the  baronet's  daughter,  sister 
to  Andrew,  very  like  her  brother  in  feature,  but 
unlike  him  in  her  smiling,  vivacious  manner.  Not 
far  from  them,  in  the  same  corner  by  the  spinet, 
Madame  Waldo  was  engaged  in  earnest  conversa 
tion  with  Stephen  Minot,  a  wealthy  merchant  of 
Boston,  her  husband's  relative  and  close  friend. 


86    THE  SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER. 

And  in  the  broad,  front  window  by  the  card  tables, 
four  gentlemen  were  seated  talking.  Of  these 
four  one  was  Mr.  Sparhawk,  of  Kittery,  he  who 
had  married  the  baronet's  daughter.  Two  others 
were  Will  Tyler  and  Joel  Whittemore,  nephews  of 
Sir  William  Pepperell  and,  consequently,  cousins 
to  Andrew,  both  of  them  dashing  young  blades  of 
manhood.  The  fourth  was  a  trim  little  gentleman 
of  alert  glance  and  quick  gesture,  a  somewhat  re 
markable  personage,  Thomas  Flucker,  secretary  of 
the  province. 

Of  course  every  one  in  the  drawing-room  was 
speaking  of  the  same  thing,  the  postponement  of 
Hannah's  wedding.  Hannah's  wedding,  sore  trial 
to  Hannah's  pride  and  patience,  had  long  been  a 
much  talked  of  matter.  It  was  now  nearly  five 
years  since  the  publishment  of  her  engagement  to 
Andrew  Pepperell,  the  baronet's  son,  a  young  man 
of  rank  and  fortune,  notably  the  best  "  catch "  in 
the  province.  The  Pepperells  were  all  very  fond 
of  Hannah,  were  eager  to  have  her  one  of  their 
family,  and  chafed  at  the  length  of  the  engage 
ment.  And  the  young  man  himself  was  fond  of 
Hannah.  He,  too,  looked  forward  with  pleasant 
anticipation  to  having  her  enter  the  family  as  his 
wife.  But  he  was  in  no  hurry,  he  was  of  the  slow 
sort. 

After  waiting  awhile,  the  world,  a  world  that 
loved  Hannah,  grew  angry  with  Andrew  because 
of  his  dilatoriness,  called  him  a  laggard  lover, 


THE  SERVING  OF  A    LAGGARD  LOVER.   87 

ridiculed  the  fact  of  his  engagement,  declared  that 
he  would  never  marry  Hannah  Waldo.  In  the 
face  of  such  talk  Hannah's  position,  needless  to 
say,  was  a  trying  one.  However,  her  loyalty  to 
her  lover  did  not  once  falter.  No  word  of  criticism 
against  him  ever  dared  speak  itself  in  her  presence. 

At  length  the  lover  grew  more  eager.  A  day 
was  named  for  the  wedding;  entertainment  was 
provided;  elaborate  preparation  made.  Then  the 
note  from  the  bridegroom-elect  to  the  bride-elect, 
postponing  the  day  of  the  wedding,  arrived.  That 
note  came  like  a  thunderbolt.  It  shook  the  world, 
the  Waldo-Pepperell  world,  to  its  centre ;  shook  it 
into  a  state  of  perplexed,  of  indignant  amazement. 

"  This  postponement  of  the  wedding  is  certainly 
very  unfortunate,"  Mrs.  Sparhawk  was  declaring  to 
Mr.  Winslow.  "  People  will  talk  more  than  ever 
now.  I  cannot  understand  Andrew's  conduct  in 
this.  He  has  probably  had  another  attack  of  the 
vapors.  You  know  he  has  not  been  well,  and  his 
poor  health,  together  with  heavy  losses  of  property 
at  sea,  has  produced  a  settled  state  of  melancholy. 
My  father  has  done  generously  by  him,  has  given 
him  a  house  and  land  enough  to  furnish  a  very 
pretty  income.  Andrew  ought  to  be  satisfied. 
But  the  poor  boy  is  not  himself.  Of  course  not, 
or  he  would  never  behave  as  he  is  doing.  I  cannot 
understand  his  being  such  a  laggard.  I  know  that 
he  means  only  honor  in  the  case,  that  he  will  never 
be  happy  until  he  has  married  Hannah." 


88    THE  SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Minot  was  remarking  to  Madame 
Waldo,  "  Hannah,  I  presume,  is  in  this  instance 
the  same  heroine  that  she  always  is.  All  her  friends 
are  talking  of  her  dignified  and  proper  behavior 
throughout  her  long  engagement  to  Andrew  and 
separation  from  him  and  amid  the  ill-natured  com 
ments  that  the  world  has  passed  upon  him.  If 
only  the  young  man  himself  could  know  fully  how 
gracefully  she  has  conducted  herself,  I  am  sure  he 
would  be  fonder  and  prouder  of  her  than  ever." 

And  over  in  the  window  by  the  card  tables  Mr. 
Sparhawk  was  observing,  "  The  country,  especially 
the  more  worthy  and  better  part  of  it,  is  quite  ex 
asperated  at  Andrew's  conduct.  We  who  are  his 
friends  cannot  but  feel  greatly  concerned  for  him. 
If  the  matter  falls  through  and  he  never  marries 
the  lady,  I  very  much  fear  his  character  will  be  irre 
trievably  lost." 

"  And  justly  will  his  character  be  lost."  It  was 
the  trim  little  gentleman  who  spoke  —  Thomas 
Flucker,  he  who  was  secretary  of  the  province. 
To  emphasize  the  word  "  justly  "  he  brought  down 
his  fist  impetuously  upon  the  table.  He  was  a 
vehement  gentleman,  and  the  table  fairly  quaked 
beneath  his  blow.  "  In  my  opinion  there  is  no  one 
so  mean,  so  contemptible,  as  a  laggard  lover,"  he 
asserted. 

"But,"  interposed  Mr.  Sparhawk,  his  family 
pride  touched,  "Andrew  means  honorably  in  the 
case.  He  intends  to  marry  Miss  Hannah." 


THE  SERVING  OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER.   89 

"  Then  why  does  n't  he  come  forward  and  claim 
her?"  demanded  the  vehement  little  secretary. 
His  round  cheeks  flushed  with  emotion,  his  small 
black  eyes  sent  forth  angry  lightnings.  "  Is  he  a 
girl  that  he  must  be  wooed  to  the  altar  ?  There  's 
not  another  man  in  the  province,  I  '11  wager,  who 
would  have  held  off  so  long  a  while,  when  Miss 
Hannah  was  the  prize.  Six  years!  I  vow,  six 
weeks  would  have  been  too  long  a  season  of  wait 
ing,  were  I  in  Mr.  Pepperell's  shoes." 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  Flucker,"  suggested 
young  Tyler,  slyly,  "  why  not  steal  Andy's  shoes 
while  he  is  sleeping  ?  They  might  fit  you." 

It  was  at  this  point  in  the  conversation  that 
Hannah  and  her  sister  appeared  in  the  door-way  of 
the  drawing-room.  Immediately  the  company 
ceased  talking  of  Hannah  and  the  postponement  of 
Hannah's  wedding.  Mrs.  Sparhawk  seated  herself 
at  the  spinet  and  began  playing  softly,  while  those 
about  her  sat  silent,  listening.  The  gentlemen  at 
the  card  tables  rose  and  went  forward  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  incoming  ladies. 

"  What  great  matter  were  you  gentlemen  discuss 
ing  ?  "  Hannah  inquired,  when  with  Mr.  Flucker 
and  Will  Tyler  she  had  drifted  away  from  the  rest 
of  the  company  over  to  the  broad  wrindow-seat, 
near  the  card  tables.  "  You  seemed  very  much  ex 
cited  about  something  when  I  entered." 

"  Flucker  was  criticising  the  way  a  certain  gen 
tleman  wears  his  shoes,"  Will  Tyler  retorted  gayly. 


90    THE  SERVING  OF  A  LAGGARD  LOVER. 

"  I  advised  him  to  take  the  shoes  and  wear  them 
himself,  on  the  possibility  that  they  might  become 
him  better  than  the  other  man." 

Hannah  looked  from  Will  to  Mr.  Flucker,  smil 
ing  and  apparently  unconscious  of  any  hidden 
meaning  in  the  words.  "  Why,  Will,"  she  ex 
claimed,  "  would  you  make  a  robber  of  Mr. 
Flucker?" 

Will  laughed.  But  Mr.  Flucker  did  not  laugh ; 
instead,  he  regarded  the  girl  gravely,  more  gravely 
than  the  conversation  appeared  to  warrant. 

"  Miss  Hannah,"  he  said,  "  I  fear  I  am  something 
of  a  robber  already.  I  steal  by  my  thoughts  if  not 
by  my  deeds."  There  was  unmistakable  meaning 
in  his  words.  An  embarrassed  silence  followed 
them.  Then,  glancing  away  from  the  girl,  and 
smiling  to  relieve  the  tension  of  the  moment,  he 
continued,  "  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  I  should 
have  lived  in  the  time  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  rob 
ber  band.  Their  code  of  laws  has  always  appealed 
to  me.  To  take  from  those  who  could  spare,  to 
give  to  those  who  needed  —  that  was  their  way. 
They  robbed  the  undeserving  and  helped  the  de 
serving.  A  certain  rough  sort  of  justice  and  honor 
framed  their  code,  a  justice  and  honor  with  which 
I  sympathize.  I,  too,  should  like  to  rob  the  unde 
serving,  and  take  from  those  who,  it  seems  to  me, 
have  forfeited  their  claim."  With  sudden  boldness 
the  secretary  brought  his  small  black  eyes  to  bear 
upon  the  girl's  downcast  face.  "  I  think  that  a 


THE  SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER.   91 

man  may  forfeit  his  claim,  do  not  you,  Miss  Han 
nah  ?  " 

Hannah  lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  the  secretary's 
bold  gaze.  "Yes,"  she  answered  quickly,  deter 
minedly,  with  a  flash  of  reminiscential  anger. 

Some  moments  later  Will  touched  Joel  Whit- 
temore  upon  the  shoulder  and  drew  him  aside. 
"  Joel,"  he  whispered,  "  our  cousin  had  best  look 
to  his  lady  if  ever  he  intends  marrying  her.  She 
and  Flucker  mean  business." 

He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  two  figures 
in  the  recess  of  the  window.  The  lattice  was  flung 
wide  open  to  the  summer  night,  and  Hannah  and 
the  secretary  were  leaning  out,  gazing  starward, 
with  an  absorption  in  each  other's  presence  that 
seemed  wholly  oblivious  of  the  rest  of  the  world. 

If  Will  Tyler  was  right  in  his  surmise,  and  if 
Hannah  and  Mr.  Flucker  really  did  mean  "  busi 
ness,"  their  business  was  apparently  forgotten  in 
the  days  that  followed.  In  those  days  Hannah's 
approaching  marriage  to  Andrew  Pepperell  was 
the  only  business  that  manifested  itself.  Hannah, 
it  seemed,  had  agreed  sweetly,  heroically,  to  the 
postponement  of  her  wedding.  A  second  day  was 
set,  again  invitations  were  sent  out,  entertainment 
provided,  elaborate  preparation  made.  The  world 
elevated  its  brows  and  looked  incredulous.  "  What 
would  be  the  excuse  this  time  for  postponing  the 
Walclo-Pepperell  alliance  ?  "  it  wondered. 

Hannah's  wedding-day  dawned  with  every  prom- 


92    THE  SERVING  OF  A  LAGGARD  LOVER. 

ise  of  happiness  and  success.  The  sky  was  clear,  the 
air  balmy.  Within  and  without  the  Waldo  man 
sion,  things  looked  their  best,  with  a  profound  re 
spect  for  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  guests  arrived.  They 
came,  a  goodly  gathering  of  Boston's  and  Kittery's 
finest  and  best,  Waldos  and  Pepperells  in  large 
numbers,  and  with  them  the  Sewalls,  the  Chaun- 
ceys,  the  Hirsts,  the  Sparhawks,  the  Langdons,  the 
Lears,  and  the  Penhallows. 

Most  conspicuous  among  the  guests  was  Hannah's 
future  father-in-law,  the  renowned  baronet,  Sir 
William  Pepperell.  Very  handsome  and  imposing 
he  was  in  his  gold  lace  and  purple  satin,  and  his 
new  Ramillies  wig  bought  especially  for  the  occa 
sion.  He  and  his  wife  had  driven  all  the  way 
from  Kittery  in  their  chariot  to  attend  the  wedding. 

Courtly  and  serene,  the  baronet  mingled  among 
the  guests,  and  smiled  his  satisfaction  in  the  busi 
ness  of  the  day.  And  to  Madame  Waldo  he  ex 
pressed  regret  that  his  good  friend  General  Waldo, 
her  husband,  was  absent  in  London  at  the  time. 
"  I  wish  that  he  were  here,"  he  remarked,  "  to  wit 
ness  this  joyous  consummation  of  our  long-cherished 
hopes." 

At  length  came  the  moment  that  was  to  bring 
the  bride.  The  guests,  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room,  looked  toward  the  door,  waiting  and  ex 
pectant.  The  minister,  immaculate  in  black  coat 
and  white  bands,  standing  in  the  deep  recess  of  the 


SHE    DID    NOT   ^AKE   THE   BRIDEGROOMS   ARM 


THE   SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER.    93 

window  where  the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed, 
looked  toward  the  door,  waiting  and  expectant. 
And  the  bridegroom,  a  tall,  slender  gentleman  very 
fine  in  his  suit  of  fawn-colored  satin,  his  Mechlin 
lace  ruffles  and  his  diamond  buckles,  with  an  antic 
ipatory  smile  upon  his  pale,  serious,  Hamlet-like 
face,  from  his  station  by  the  door  looked  toward 
the  stairs,  waiting  and  expectant. 

Down  the  stairs  and  along  the  hall,  attended  by 
her  bridesmaids,  came  Hannah  and  stood  in  the 
door-way.  She  was  all  in  white  and  beautiful 
beneath  her  bridal  veil,  not  pale  like  the  bride 
groom,  but  flushed  and  radiant,  and  her  eyes  were 
dark,  darker  than  usual  it  seemed,  and  very  bright. 

She  did  not  take  the  bridegroom's  arm,  as  by 
rights  she  should  have  done.  Instead  she  drew 
away  from  him  a  step,  and  looked  him  up  and 
down,  over  all  his  magnificence  of  satin,  lace,  and 
diamond  buckles  with  a  cool,  distant  stare. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  company,  smiling  ironi 
cally,  whimsically.  "My  friends,"  she  said  in  a 
clear  voice,  quiet  and  composed,  "I  fear  I  must 
disappoint  you.  You  have  come  expecting  a 
wedding,  but  there  will  be  no  wedding."  Again 
she  regarded  the  bridegroom  with  that  cool, 
distant  stare.  "I  have  decided,"  she  continued, 
"  that  Mr.  Pepperell  has  not  that  love  and  friend 
ship  for  me  which  is  necessary  to  make  me 
happy  as  his  wife.  Therefore  I  will  not  marry 
him." 


94    THE  SERVING   OF  A   LAGGARD  LOVER. 

Nothing  could  have  been  simpler,  more  free 
from  melodrama,  yet  more  determined  than  the 
way  in  which  she  spoke  the  ominous  words.  With 
quickly  brightening  glance  she  turned  again  to 
the  company.  "  But  this  must  not  interfere  with 
your  pleasure  this  afternoon,  my  friends,"  she  de 
clared.  "  There  will  be  no  wedding,  but  just  as 
though  there  were  a  wedding,  there  will  be  music 
and  dancing.  Let  the  merry-making  begin  at  once. 
Pray  choose  your  partners  for  the  minuet." 

One  moment  she  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  floor, 
the  next  she  had  lifted  them  to  look,  not  at  the 
tall,  handsome  bridegroom  on  her  left,  whose  pale 
ness  had  become  a  pallor,  but  instead  at  a  trim 
little  gentleman  on  her  right,  whose  small  black 
eyes  were  waiting  for  her  look. 

"  Mr.  Flucker,"  she  said  with  dignity  and  with 
great  friendliness  as  well,  "I  believe  I  promised  my 
hand  to  you  for  the  minuet,  did  I  not  ?  It  is  ready 
for  you  now"  —she  extended  her  hand.  "Will 
you  not  lead  me  forth  to  the  dance  ?  " 

Sir  William  and  his  lady,  it  is  said,  returned 
home  from  what  was  to  have  been  their  son's  wed 
ding,  sadly  disappointed.  The  other  guests  of  that 
wedding  that  was  no  wedding,  went  away,  knowing 
not  whether  to  be  sorry  or  pleased.  From  London 
General  Waldo  wrote  to  his  old  friend  Sir  William 
Pepperell,  expressing  his  regret  at  his  daughter's 
change  of  mind.  The  bridegroom  said  nothing. 


THE  SERVING   OF  A    LAGGARD  LOVER.   95 

Like  Hamlet,  however,  whom  he  resembled,  he 
probably  thought  and  suffered  a  great  deal. 

The  world  elevated  its  brows  and  smiled.  Miss 
Hannah  Waldo,  it  decided,  was  a  very  clever  young 
woman. 

And  the  world  was  to  elevate  its  brows  still 
higher  and  smile  more  broadly.  Miss  Hannah 
Waldo  had  had  her  revenge.  She  was  also  to  have 
her  consolation.  Less  than  six  weeks  after  that 
dramatic  severing  of  the  Waldo-Pepperell  alliance, 
the  rejected  bridegroom,  languishing  in  his  Kittery 
mansion,  received  a  brief  but  pithy  message  from 
his  Boston  cousin,  Will  Tyler.  "  I  have  to  inform 
you,"  wrote  the  waggish  Will,  "  that  last  Monday 
evening  Miss  Hannah  Waldo,  brought  in  her 
chariot,  appeared  a  bride  at  the  West  Church,  New 
Boston,  and  was  married  to  Mr.  Flucker." 


VI. 
THE   WOOING   OF  A   GOVERNOR. 

GOVERNOR  BENNING  WENTWORTH  was  alone  in 
his  Council  Chamber.  The  members  of  his  Council, 
after  a  long  and  tedious  meeting,  had  withdrawn. 
Business  was  done  for  the  day.  In  the  quiet  of 
the  twilight  hour,  the  Governor  sat  in  his  easy- 
chair  by  the  window,  the  broad  eastern  window 
that  looked  out  upon  Little  Harbor,  and  smoked 
his  long  pipe,  and  tried  to  fancy  that  he  was  happy. 

He  had  much  to  make  him  happy,  he  reminded 
himself.  He  was  the  greatest  man  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  governor  of  the  province.  Things  went  very 
much  as  he  directed  —  laws  were  made  and  un 
made,  lands  granted,  offenders  punished,  according 
to  his  decree.  People  smirked  and  salaamed  before 
him.  He  rode  in  a  chariot  and  was  served  by 
slaves.  And  his  house,  that  stood  a  short  distance 
out  of  the  town  of  Portsmouth,  a  sequestered, 
stately,  noble  sort  of  pile,  was  a  palace  in  the 
primitive  fashion  of  the  day  and  land. 

Recounting  to  himself  his  benefits,  and  puffing 
at  his  pipe  with  an  assumption  of  content,  the 
Governor  looked  about  him.  His  glance  travelled 
round  his  Council  Chamber  from  carved  mantel  to 

96 


THE    WOOING    OF   A     GOVERNOR.         97 

oaken  floor,  from  painted  panel  and  rich  tapestry- 
to  the  broad  fireplace  where  stout  logs  blazed  and 
roared ;  and  having  left  the  Council  Chamber  his 
glance  went  further,  through  doors  that  opened 
upon  the  billiard  room,  where  were  visible  the 
table  and,  to  one  side,  a  buffet  on  which  punch 
bowl,  tankards,  and  glass  goblets  were  set  forth; 
and  going  yet  further,  his  glance  reached  through 
other  doors  showing  vistas  of  other  rooms  where, 
on  festive  occasions,  cards  and  games  of  many  sorts 
were  played. 

His  glance  having  noted  all  these  things,  symbols 
of  magnificence  and  pleasure,  came  back  to  his  fire 
place  and  the  empty  chairs  about  him,  came  back 
drearily,  missing  something.  This  place  was  his 
house,  his  palace,  he  remarked  to  himself.  But 
was  it  home  ?  he  queried.  Could  any  place  be  home 
to  a  man  who  was  a  widower  and  childless  ?  Nay, 
he  reflected,  wanting  wife  and  children  his  house 
in  spite  of  its  magnificence  was  cheerless,  and 
wanting  wife  and  children  his  life  in  spite  of  its 
elevation  and  its  honors  was  cheerless  too,  as  cheer 
less,  he  told  himself,  as  the  scene  without  his  win 
dow  —  a  scene  of  bare  trees  and  frosted  lawns 
reaching  down  to  a  gray  sea. 

The  Governor's  mood  as  he  arrived  at  this  con 
clusion  was  not  one  of  sentiment.  The  Governor 
was  not  a  sentimental  man.  His  face,  florid  and 
genial,  his  portly  person,  and  his  general  air  of  easy 
dignity  and  graciousness  showed  him  to  be,  what 


98  THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR. 

in  truth  he  was,  a  man  completely  given  to  the 
material  things  of  life.  He  governed  practically, 
shrewdly,  with  an  eye  to  the  province's  purse  and 
his  own  as  well.  He  lived  high,  sleeping,  eating, 
drinking,  smoking  to  his  fill.  He  loved  his  snuff 
boxes  and  his  bowls,  his  cards,  his  hunting,  and  his 
racing.  And  he  had  loved  his  wife  and  his  chil 
dren,  not  merely  as  he  loved  these  other  things  of 
course,  yet  with  a  difference  of  degree  rather  than 
of  kind.  His  wife  had  been  much  dearer  to  him 
than  his  cards,  but  he  had  expended  no  more  senti 
ment  upon  her  than  he  expended  upon  them.  And 
he  missed  her,  according  to  his  nature,  with  no 
great  constancy  of  affection  or  sorrow  in  his  loss  of 
her,  but  with  the  wish  that  she  might  have  con 
tinued  with  him  to  give  the  needed  touch  of 
cheeriness,  of  comfort,  of  home  to  his  surroundings. 
It  was  with  this  wish  at  his  heart,  and  with  the 
added  wish  that  his  sons  too  might  have  been 
spared  to  him  to  make  enjoyable  the  last  years  of 
his  life,  that  the  Governor  gazed  sadly  out  of  his 
Council  Chamber  window.  The  winter  scene  with 
out  reminded  him  of  his  own  winter,  of  the  frosty 
locks  that  a  wig  could  hide  but  not  rejuvenate,  and 
of  those  sixty  years  or  more,  the  weight  of  which 
was  heavy  upon  him.  The  Governor  drew  a  sigh, 
meditating  that  he  was  indeed  getting  to  be  an  old 
man,  that  he  had  been  a  widower  for  a  long  while, 
and  that  if  he  wished  to  derive  any  further  pleasure 
from  life  before  he  died,  such  pleasure  as  love  and 


THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR.         99 

matrimony  might  confer,  't  was  time  he  went  about 
it. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  because  the 
Governor  was  a  widower  of  many  years'  standing, 
that  he  was  such  without  ever  having  made  an  at 
tempt  to  change  his  condition.  Rumor  told  an 
amusing  but  not  wholly  creditable  tale  about  a 
matrimonial  endeavor  of  his.  When  his  widower's 
weeds  had  not  long  been  withered,  it  was  whispered, 
the  Governor's  fancy  had  been  captured  by  a  certain 
Mistress  Molly  Pitman,  and  to  the  maiden  he  had 
offered  himself,  his  riches,  and  his  honors.  But 
Molly,  who  was  a  maiden  with  more  of  sentiment 
than  of  worldliness  about  her,  had  preferred  one 
Master  Shortridge,  a  mechanic.  Thereupon  the 
Governor,  with  a  stroke  of  playful  humor  and  of 
deviltry  as  well,  had  kidnapped  the  mechanic,  and 
sent  him  off  to  serve  in  foreign  ports.  But  fate, 
with  a  playfulness  and  deviltry  to  outrival  the 
Governor's,  restored  the  lovers  to  each  other. 
And  the  Governor  was  left  a  widower  to  await 
the  pleasure  of  some  less  romantic  maiden  than 
Mistress  Molly  Pitman. 

It  was  with  the  remembrance  of  Molly  Pitman, 
rankling  like  a  thorn  in  his  flesh  no  doubt,  that  the 
Governor  started  suddenly,  somewhat  indignantly 
from  his  chair,  and  going  over  to  a  tall  pier-glass 
that  was  in  a  further  corner  of  the  room,  stood 
before  it,  surveying  himself  critically.  The  sight 
of  his  imposing  figure,  resplendent  in  purple  and 


100        THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR. 

gold,  and  radiant  with  the  glory  of  diamond  clasps 
and  silver  buckles,  impressed  him  favorably  and  he 
was  satisfied. 

"  Surely  I  may  find  favor  in  a  woman's  eyes," 
he  told  himself;  and  unconsciously,  so  absorbed 
was  he,  so  very  much  in  earnest,  he  spoke  aloud. 

"  Your  Excellency  hath  spoken  truly,"  said  a 
voice  behind  him,  a  voice  in  which  reverence  and 
impudence  most  charmingly  united. 

The  Governor  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
voice.  "  Martha,"  he  said,  surprised,  abashed,  re 
proving,  and  yet  pleased. 

Martha  was  standing  in  the  doorway  that  led 
into  the  hall.  The  portraits  of  the  ancestral  Went- 
worths  were  above  her,  and  about  her  was  the 
oaken,  carved,  conventional  magnificence  of  the 
colonial  palace.  But  Martha  stood  unawed,  un 
afraid,  a  wayward  sunbeam  that  had  dared  to 
penetrate  through  the  gloom  into  the  innermost 
sanctum  of  the  palace.  A  branch  of  candles  was 
in  her  hand,  bringing  brightness  into  the  room, 
and  lighting  into  radiance  her  own  fair,  gypsy-like 
face. 

"I  thought  perchance  your  Excellency  might 
wish  for  lights,"  she  observed,  coming  forward  and 
setting  down  the  branch  of  candles  on  a  table  near 
to  where  the  Governor  was  standing.  "  It  grows 
dark  early  these  winter  afternoons."  She  turned 
upon  the  Governor  a  glance  demure,  yet  smiling, 
that  seemed  to  say  that  she  would  keep  her  place 


THE    WOOING    OF  A    GOVERNOR.       101 

and  at  the  same  time  would  enjoy  a  joke  even  at 
his  Excellency's  expense. 

"  You  are  a  thoughtful  girl,  Martha,"  remarked 
the  Governor,  approvingly.  "  But  for  you,  in  spite 
of  slaves  and  servants,  I  should  fare  poorly  in  my 
own  house." 

"  I  but  do  my  duty,  sir,"  she  answered,  lowering 
her  eyes  and  moving  toward  the  door.  For  ill  her 
sweet  humility  there  was  an  air  of  cunning  and 
audacity  about  her.  She  was  certainly  a  most 
contradictory,  inconsistent,  wondrous  bit  of  femin 
inity,  and  would  have  interested  a  more  fastidious 
man  than  Governor  Benning  Wentworth. 

"  Martha,"  called  the  Governor,  when  she  had 
reached  the  threshold.  He  had  drawn  his  chair  to 
the  table  where  she  had  placed  the  branch  of 
candles  and  sat  there,  his  hands  folded  upon  the 
table,  regarding  her  with  the  pleased  expression 
that  she  so  often  woke  in  his  face.  "  How  long 
have  you  been  in  my  service,  Martha?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Seven  years,"  she  answered. 

"  Seven  years,"  he  repeated  after  her.  "  That  is 
a  long  time,  Martha,  for  one  who  is  young  like 
you."  He  spoke  meditatively,  and  continued  to 
regard  her  with  the  pleased  expression.  "  And  all 
that  while  you  have  served  me  well,"  he  continued. 
"  You  have  been  careful  of  my  comforts,  quick  to 
do  my  bidding,  and  slow  to  ask  favors  of  me.  You 
have  been  a  good  girl,  Martha,  and  now  what 


102        THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR. 

reward  do  you  ask  for  your  seven  years  of  service  ?  " 
he  inquired.  "  You  yourself  shall  name  the  reward, 
and  with  pleasure  I  will  grant  it." 

A  light  flashed  in  the  girl's  face.  She  advanced 
toward  the  Governor  several  steps.  "  I  am  to 
name  the  reward  and  your  Excellency  will  grant 
whatever  I  ask  ?  "  she  questioned  quickly,  eagerly. 

The  Governor  nodded,  smiling  at  her  impetu 
osity.  He  guessed  that  she  would  ask  of  him  some 
girlish  trifle  —  a  ribbon,  a  trinket,  or  perchance  a 
gown. 

But  here  he  misjudged  the  daring  maiden  before 
him.  Martha  Hilton  was  not  one  to  stop  at  a 
ribbon,  a  trinket,  or  a  gown.  Her  ambitions 
reached  higher  than  trifles.  Her  ambitions  would 
make  of  her  a  lady,  would  have  her  ride  in  a 
chariot,  would  put  a  title  before  her  name,  would 
have  her  go  gowned  in  brocaded  satin,  her  hair 
dressed  over  a  towering  cushion,  red  heels  upon  her 
slippers. 

Martha's  ambitions  were  with  her  always.  They 
rose  with  her  in  the  morning,  ate  with  her,  worked 
with  her  through  the  day,  found  their  way  into  her 
prayers  and  lay  down  with  her  at  night.  Indeed, 
they  must  have  been  born  with  her.  Seven  years 
before  the  time  of  this  scene  in  the  Governor's 
Council  Chamber,  when  Martha  was  just  a  more 
slip  of  a  girl,  they  were  as  omnipresent  as  at  this 
later  date  when  the  bloom  of  her  twentieth  summer 
was  upon  her.  When  naught  but  a  scrub  girl,  bare- 


THE     WOOING    OF   A     GOVERNOR.        103 

footed,  bare-shouldered,  and  with  dishevelled  h?ar, 
fetching  water  from  the  town  pump  and  splashing 
her  bare  feet  with  the  drops  that  fell  from  her  pail, 
the  light  of  reckless,  impudent,  merry  childhood 
dancing  in  her  eyes,  her  shoeless,  decollete*  condi 
tion  had  scandalized  a  proper  dame,  Mistress  Stavers, 
hostess  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax  Inn.  Dame  Stavers 
standing  in  the  doorway, of  her  tavern,  beholding 
Martha  as  she  passed,  had  remonstrated,  exclaim 
ing,  k'  You  Pat,  you  Pat,  how  dare  you  go  looking 
so  ?  "  But  Martha,  who,  in  spite  of  bare  feet  and 
shoulderless  gown,  already  dreamed  of  future 
glory  had  tossed  her  head  pertly  and  proudly, 
retorting,  "  No  matter  how  I  look  now,  madam,  I 
shall  yet  ride  in  my  chariot."  Martha  a  child,  it 
may  be  seen,  was  ambitious  as  well  as  Martha  a 
woman. 

Martha's  ambitions,  together  with  a  tact,  a  clever 
ness,  a  daring  all  as  inborn  as  her  ambitions,  had 
already  lifted  her  several  rounds  up  the  ladder  of 
success.  For  seven  years  she  had  served  the  Gov 
ernor  and  in  that  time  had  not  failed  in  her  duty  to 
him,  had  grown  practised,  skilled  in  household  arts, 
and  wise  in  the  knowledge  of  her  master's  likes  and 
dislikes.  She  had  won  her  master's  approval  and 
his  praises.  She  was  first  among  his  servants,  next 
himself  in  importance  in  his  household.  Was  it 
surprising,  considering  how  she  had  progressed,  that 
she  should  be  daring  to  raise  her  eyes  still  higher, 
even  to  the  eminence  of  the  Governor  himself? 


104        THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR. 

To  Martha  herself  it  was  not  at  all  surprising 
that  she  should  so  dare.  She  knew  that  a  marriage 
betweeA  the  Governor  and  herself  would  not  be  the 
first  marriage  between  high  and  low.  She  may  not 
have  been  familiar  with  the  story  of  King  Cophetua 
and  the  beggar  maid,  but  other  stories,  similar  to 
that  classic  one,  were  happening  all  about  her. 
The  shifting  society  of  the  colonial  day,  its  roman 
tic,  adventurous  character,  made  marriages  between 
high  and  low  a  not  unusual  occurrence,  and  in  dar 
ing  to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  Governor,  Martha  was 
not  without  precedent. 

*'  Your  Excellency  will  grant  whatever  I  ask  ?  " 
again  she  queried.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright  and 
the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks  ;  but  she  was 
self-possessed  with  the  self-possession  that  comes 
always  to  brave  spirits  in  moments  of  great  crisis. 

Again  the  Governor  nodded,  smiling.  He  noted 
the  girl's  bright  eyes  and  changing  color,  but  only 
to  reflect  that  this  maid-servant  of  his  was  fair, 
fairer  indeed,  he  thought,  than  those  high-stepping, 
aristocratic  dames  who  thronged  his  card  rooms, 
reception  rooms,  and  ball  rooms  on  occasions  of 
festivity. 

Martha  courtesied  low  before  the  Governor.  Then 
she  rose  slowly  and  stood  erect  before  him,  turning 
upon  him  a  glance  quick,  determined,  and  intrepid, 
yet  shy  withal  and  coquettishly  appealing. 

"I  ask  no  less  a  boon  than  your  Excellency's 
self,"  she  said. 


THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR.       105 

Her  words  brought  the  Governor  to  his  feet. 
"  Hoity,  toity ! "  he  exclaimed,  but  his  tone  was 
one  of  surprise  rather  than  of  displeasure.  It  might 
be  that  his  maid-servant  was  presumptuous,  yet 
truly  she  was  presumptuous  in  a  very  agreeable, 
charming  sort  of  way.  She  flattered  his  vanity, 
she  tickled  his  sense  of  humor. 

The  Governor  played  first  with  his  ruffles  and 
then  with  his  watch-chain,  surveying  Martha  all 
the  while  with  an  amused  smile. 

"So  you  would  be  Governor's  Lady?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  eyes  smiling  with  his 
eyes,  her  head  held  very  high  and  proud. 

"  Gad !  "  exclaimed  the  Governor,  admiration  in 
his  glance;  "I  don't  doubt  but  that  you  would 
make  a  good  one." 

"  Would  I  not,  though !  "  exclaimed  Martha,  her 
voice  rippling  with  laughter,  her  eyes  dancing 
enthusiastically  at  the  prospect.  "Do  you  not 
think  a  train  gown  and  rings  upon  my  fingers 
would  become  me?"  She  swished  an  imaginary 
train,  as  she  spoke,  and  held  out  her  fingers  to 
show  imaginary  rings.  "  Who  knows  your  house 
so  well  as  I  ?  "  she  demanded  with  pretty  sauciness ; 
"and  who  knows  you  so  well?  And  could  I  not 
order  the  servants  about  royally?"  Her  eyes 
flashed  with  promises  of  despotism.  "  And  could 
I  not  act  the  grand  lady  to  perfection?'  She 
smiled  and  folded  her  hands  and  elevated  her  chin 


106        THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR. 

after  the  manner  of  grand  ladies.  The  dramatic 
artist,  that  was  a  large  part  of  Martha,  rose  nobly 
to  the  occasion.  Martha  played  to  the  Governor 
as  she  had  never  played  to  any  one  before.  There 
was  genius  in  her  every  motion. 

The  Governor  proved  a  most  appreciative  audi 
ence.  He  laughed  and  applauded,  and  at  the  end 
pronounced  the  verdict,  "  Martha,  you  have  not 
your  match  in  the  province." 

Again  Martha  courtesied.  "Saving  only  your 
Excellency,"  she  said,  and  her  manner  was  that 
mingling  of  reverence  and  impudence  characteristic 
of  her  and  very  pleasing  to  the  Governor. 

"  And  is  my  boon  to  be  granted  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"If  thou  wilt  woo  me  with  a  kiss,  thou  shalt 
have  me  —  Lady  Wentworth,"  he  answered. 

Had  the  little  god  with  the  quiver  and  the 
arrows  tried  to  make  a  third  with  Martha  and  the 
Governor,  he  must  have  withdrawn  from  their 
company  abashed.  Such  boldness  on  her  part, 
such  levity  on  his,  was  not  at  all  according  to  the 
code  of  the  little  god. 

But  if  love  was  missing  from  the  union,  at  least 
each  got  what  he  and  she  desired  —  the  Governor 
his  domestic  comfort,  and  Martha  her  coach  and 
brocaded  gown,  her  red-heeled  slippers,  and  servants 
to  obey  her  beck  and  call,  all  that  magnificence 
and  power,  indeed,  of  which  she  had  dreamed. 

Martha    and    the    Governor    lived    their   lives 


GOVERNOR    PROVED    A    MOST   APPRECIATIVE   AUDIENCE. 


THE    WOOING    OF   A    GOVERNOR.       107 

according  to  their  lights,  somewhat  glaring,  and 
after  a  fashion  of  their  own,  somewhat  worldly. 
Whatever  their  faults,  however,  they  certainly  were 
not  prosaic.  And  so,  Romance  found  them  and, 
Avith  an  indulgent  smile,  enrolled  them  in  the  list 
of  her  immortals. 


VII. 
THE   PASSING   OF  A  SWEETHEART. 

"I  BELIEVE  that  is  all,  gentlemen."  As  he 
spoke,  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush  rose  and  pushed  back 
his  chair.  Save  for  an  expression  of  weariness 
about  the  eyes,  he  was  his  usual  cheerful,  urbane 
self.  "  The  case  in  question  was  a  very  particular 
case,"  he  said.  "  I  felt  the  need  of  other  opinion 
than  my  own.  I  thank  you  for  the  interest  you 
have  taken.  What  you  say  only  confirms  what  I 
myself  had  feared.  The  case  is  hopeless." 

He  went  over  to  the  window  of  his  lodgings  and 
looked  out  across  a  vista  of  brick  walls,  roofs,  and 
city  gardens  to  a  glimpse  of  green  country  land 
indistinct  in  the  distance.  His  eyes  could  not  see 
the  vine-clad  farmhouse  that  was  somewhere  there, 
but  his  imagination  gave  it  form  with  all  the  clear 
ness  of  reality. 

The  other  gentlemen,  all  friends  of  his  as  well 
as  fellow-workers,  thought  that  they  read  in  his 
expression,  one  of  abstraction  and  remoteness,  a 
wish  to  be  alone.  They  did  not  stop  to  discuss 
with  him  Dr.  Redman's  lecture  at  the  Medical 
College  of  the  night  before,  nor  to  retail  any  pro 
fessional  gossip  as,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 

108 


THE   PASSING    OF    A    SWEETHEART.  109 

they  might  have  done.  They  moved  towards  the 
door,  their  three-cornered  hats  beneath  their  arms. 

Dr.  Rush  bowed  them  out  with  his  usual  cour 
tesy  ;  but  when  Dr.  James,  his  old-time  chum  and 
classmate,  would  have  made  his  departure  with  the 
rest,  he  called  him  back. 

"  James,"  he  remarked  to  the  young  man  who 
stood  before  him,  looking  a  sympathy  he  could  not 
express,  "  to  what  good  were  we  created,  we  doc 
tors  ?  My  wise-looking  medical  volumes,  my  black 
bottles  arrayed  in  deadly  ranks  upon  the  shelves, 
my  diploma  from  the  College  of  Edinburgh,  with 
its  bold  flourishes  and  dazzling  seal,  hung  in  such 
prominence  upon  the  wall,  they  all  mock  me." 
He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  light  irony,  pointing  to  the 
objects  as  he  named  them.  A  smile  brightened  his 
serious  face,  but  quickly  vanished  and  was  suc 
ceeded  by  an  expression  of  more  intense  serious 
ness  than  before. 

James  went  up  to  him  and  grasped  his  hand. 
"You  should  not  speak  so,  Rush,"  he  protested. 
"  You  have  done  great  good  in  the  world  already, 
and  you  will  do  even  greater." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  Our  power  fails 
us  when  we  most  need  it,"  he  declared.  And  then, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  earnestness  and  feeling,  from 
which  all  lightness  had  passed,  "  We  have  just  now 
condemned  to  death  the  purest  of  souls  and  the 
sweetest  of  women,"  he  said. 

James  met  the  doctor's  sorrowing  eyes  with  a 


110    THE   PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

look  of  understanding  and  compassion.  "  I  feared 
that 't  was  Mistress  Eve,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  doctor,  simply,  and  returned 
gratefully  his  old  chum's  eloquent  pressure  of  the 
hand. 

The  doctor's  servant,  coming  into  the  room  a  few 
moments  later,  found  him  alone,  seated  at  his  desk, 
his  head  resting  in  his  hands.  As  the  man  entered, 
the  doctor  roused  himself  with  a  half  start.  "  My 
hat  and  cane,  if  you  please,"  he  ordered  shortly, 
"  and  if  any  one  should  call,  I  will  not  be  back  till 
evening." 

Leaving  his  lodgings,  Dr.  Rush  passed  out  into 
a  world  of  warm  summer  sunshine,  of  talkativeness 
and  fashion.  It  was  that  hour  of  the  afternoon 
when  the  belles  and  beaux  of  Philadelphia  turned 
out  to  promenade  along  High  street,  what  is  now 
Market  street,  the  old-time  mall  of  the  Quaker 
city,  there  to  observe  the  latest  styles,  to  display 
to  best  advantage  their  own  dazzling  costumes,  and 
to  exchange  salutations,  greetings,  and  bits  of  news 
and  gossip,  with  the  rest  of  the  social  world. 

Dr.  Rush  was  not  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  the 
brightness  and  the  merry-making.  The  sunshine 
blinded  him,  and  the  talk  and  laughter  jarred  upon 
his  ear.  Nevertheless,  he  must  play  his  part  in  the 
brilliant  panorama.  His  position  in  the  world  of 
fashion  demanded  that  he  should. 

Already,  on  that  summer  afternoon  of  the  year 
1773,  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush  was  something  of  a  social 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  Ill 

star.  Not  that  he  was  a  macaroni.  Indeed,  his 
dress  was  of  the  simplest.  But  he  was  a  man  of 
education,  culture,  and  refinement ;  of  a  ready  wit 
and  considerable  charm  of  manner.  Though  not 
yet  thirty,  he  had  established  a  reputation  for  him 
self  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  physician  of  distin 
guished  ability.  Moreover,  he  had  travelled  and 
studied  in  foreign  lands.  The  aroma  of  the  Old 
World  was  about  him.  And  altogether  he  was  a 
most  desirable  sort  of  person,  a  young  man  deemed 
worthy  of  the  patronage  of  Philadelphia's  elite. 

Therefore,  as  he  took  his  way  along  High  street, 
he  must  stop  to  bow  profoundly  before  numerous 
smiling,  courtesying  dames,  and  to  shake  hands  and 
take  snuff  with  this  and  that  gentleman  of  his  ac 
quaintance.  Now  and  then  a  very  fine  painted 
chair  or  coach  came  to  a  halt  at  sight  of  him  and 
he  was  summoned  by  a  gracious  wave  of  glittering 
fan  or  flutter  of  lace  handkerchief  to  pay  his  re 
spects  at  my  lady's  chariot  window.  With  a  gently 
drawn  sigh  and  a  languid  glance  from  under  long 
lashes,  he  was  assured  that  my  lady  was  well,  quite 
well.  There  was  of  course  the  inevitable  migraine, 
but  that  was  only  to  be  expected  when  the  weather 
continued  so  warm  and  sultry.  Surely  there  must 
be  magic  in  the  doctor's  powders.  They  had  re 
stored  her  mamma  and  herself  to  health  and  happi 
ness.  And  how  was  Dr.  Rush  ?  She  did  not  find 
him  in  his  usual  looks.  Had  he  been  ill  that  his 
friends  had  seen  him  so  seldom  of  late  ?  or  was  this 


112    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

sudden  withdrawal  of  his  from  the  world  all  be 
cause  of  a  certain  fair  Eve  of  his  acquaintance  ? 
She  would  not  deny  she  had  heard  rumors.  Ah,  it 
was  true,  then  !  Another  man  subjected  to  the 
despotism  of  the  petticoat !  Well,  she  congratu 
lated  him  upon  his  subjugation  and  was  glad  to 
hear  he  had  so  sweet  a  mistress. 

Dr.  Rush  watched  the  departing  chariot  with  a 
whimsical  sort  of  smile.  There  had  been  a  time 
when  such  condescension  from  the  quality  had 
gratified  him  mightily.  But  now  —  now  he  had 
discovered  pleasure  of  a  better  sort. 

He  left  the  mall  and  its  gay,  glittering  throng 
behind  him  and  sought  the  quiet,  shadowy  streets 
of  the  city.  For  a  while  his  way  led  him  beneath 
rows  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  great  towering  trees 
that  might  have  been  remnants  of  the  primeval 
forest,  past  modest  dwellings  of  red  brick  and 
white  wood  with  trim  little  gardens  attached.  Here 
a  comfortable  cool  prevailed  and  the  air  wafted 
over  the  garden  walls  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
roses  and  honeysuckle.  The  brightness  and  merry 
making  of  High  street  had  wearied  him,  and  here, 
in  this  atmosphere  of  calm  retirement,  a  restless 
ness  possessed  him.  The  primeval  trees,  the 
modest  dwellings,  the  trim  gardens  with  their 
sweet  scents  all  seemed  to  be  breathing  a  spirit  of 
patience  and  content  with  which  he  could  not  feel 
in  harmony. 

After    a    time,    however,    the    quiet,    shadowy 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  113 

streets  came  to  an  end.  He  was  getting  beyond 
the  city  limits  into  the  fields  and  marshes  of  the 
Northern  Liberties.  Before  him,  in  the  midst  of 
open,  uncleared  spaces,  rose  a  long  range  of  brick 
buildings  which  he  recognized  as  the  British  bar 
racks.  Here  the  doctor  found  himself  in  a  scene 
of  noisy  confusion.  At  first  he  was  perplexed  to 
know  the  cause  of  the  excitement,  but  presently  he 
remembered  that  there  was  to  be  a  review  of  the 
troops  on  the  parade  ground  that  afternoon  which 
the  populace  was  invited  to  attend. 

The  review  was  evidently  at  an  end,  and  the 
region  about  the  barracks  was  overrun  with  a  jost 
ling,  elbowing,  homeward-bound  crowd.  In  such  a 
company,  courtesy  was  pushed  to  the  wall.  The 
doctor  took  refuge  in  a  doorway  and  waited. 

As  he  stood  there  surveying  the  hurly-burly  scene 
with  an  amused  sort  of  indulgence,  he  noted  in  the 
crowd  a  young  girl  who  seemed  to  be  getting  more 
than  her  share  of  the  jostling  and  elbowing.  She 
was  of  slender,  delicate  physique,  but  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment,  or  indignation  at  the  rude 
ness  of  her  neighbors,  had  brought  a  bright  color  to 
her  cheeks,  and  her  red  hair  beneath  her  trig  little 
bonnet  flashed  in  the  sunlight  like  a  crown  of  bur 
nished  gold.  "  How  well  she  looks  !  "  thought  the 
doctor,  and  for  the  moment  he  experienced  an 
awakening  of  hope.  The  physician  was  lost  in  the 
lover. 

The  girl  was  unconscious  of  the  doctor's  fixed 


114    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

gaze.  She  was  looking  straight  before  her  with  an 
air  of  studied  dignity  and  self-poise  that  assumed  a 
complete  indifference  to  the  company  about  her. 
To  one  who  knew  her,  however,  discomfiture  was 
manifest  in  the  downward  droop  of  her  mouth  and 
the  wide,  troubled  expression  of  her  eyes.  And 
when,  at  length,  a  great  hulking  fellow  in  military 
costume  brushed  against  her  and  addressed  her  in 
terms  of  half-tipsy  gallantry,  her  courage  wavered. 
Her  lip  quivered  just  the  slightest,  and  she  looked 
about  her  with  a  childlike  piteousness  of  appeal. 

A  firm,  steadying  hand  was  placed  beneath  her 
arm  and  a  strong  voice  spoke  in  her  ear,  "  Well, 
Sally,  is  it  not  time  you  put  yourself  under  some 
body's  protection  ?  " 

The  girl  turned  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the 
voice,  her  whole  face  lighting  with  a  surprised  and 
pleased  relief.  "  Oh,  Dr.  Rush,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  'T  was  exceedingly 
mortifying  to  find  myself  all  alone  in  this  tumult." 

"  And  how,  may  I  ask,  came  you  to  venture  out 
all  alone  in  this  tumult  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor,  with 
an  attempt  at  sternness,  arfd  then,  with  a  softening 
of  tone,  "  Is  it  kind  to  me,  Sally,  not  to  take  better 
care  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  Pray  do  not  scold,"  entreated  Sally,  gently, 
"'twas  not  my  fault.  Remember  the  old  copy  in 
the  copy  books  and  '  be  not  overhasty  to  judge.' ' 

The  happy  laughing  light  in  her  eyes  would  have 
routed  a  more  serious  reproof  than  the  doctor's. 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  115 

He  smiled,  trying  to  catch  a  little  of  her  quiet 
gayety,  yet  feeling  every  moment  more  keenly  the 
pain  of  the  knowledge  that  he  bore.  "  'T  was  the 
haste  of  love  that  prompted  me,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  interposed  Sally,  quickly,  and  a 
joyous  ring  in  her  voice  answered  the  ardor  of  his 
tone.  "  But  let  me  explain.  In  the  first  place  I 
did  not  'venture  out  alone,'  but  with  a  company 
of  friends.  We  came  to  see  the  general  review ;  " 
and  then  with  an  inquiring  look,  "  I  suppose  you 
did  too." 

The  doctor  ruminated.  "  I  did  not  know  just 
why  I  came  ;  but  now  I  know  't  was  to  see  you," 
he  concluded,  with  an  air  of  proud  triumph. 

Sally  laughed  happily.  "  And  to  save  my  re 
spect,"  she  added ;  "  I  am  very  grateful.  Really 
'twas  most  humiliating  to  discover  that  I  had  lost 
my  friends  in  some  way,  and  that  I  was  alone  on 
the  Common  surrounded  by  people  of  all  ranks  and 
denominations,  and  without  a  gentleman  to  protect 
me,"  and  she  shook  her  head  slowly  and  sadly  over 
the  seriousness  of  her  recent  dilemma. 

"  You  admit,  then,  a  gentleman  is  somewhat  neces 
sary  to  a  lady's  happiness?  "  The  doctor  spoke  in  a 
tone  of  light  raillery.  He  was  doing  very  well,  he 
told  himself ;  but  all  the  while  he  felt  like  a  man 
in  a  play  acting  a  part  with  which  he  was  not 
quite  familiar. 

Sally  surveyed  him  with  a  look  that  might  have 
been  saucy  had  it  not  been  for  the  unfailing  sweet- 


116    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

ness  of  her  countenance.  "  Only  because  of  custom," 
she  retorted,  "  not  for  any  real  service  that  he  does 
her.  'T  was  pride,  not  fear,  that  discomposed  me  a 
few  moments  ago.  I  was  ashamed  to  think  that 
some  one  I  knew  might  see  me  and  recognize  me 
all  alone  in  this  tumult.  Now,  when  I  am  with 
you,  I  hold  up  my  head  and  do  not  care  whom  I 
meet.  And  all  because  of  custom  !  "  She  spoke 
with  playful  irony  as  one  who  saw  the  foolishness 
of  such  a  custom,  but  must  of  necessity  conform  to 
it.  Then,  with  an  upward  glance  at  the  doctor 
and  a  smile  that  contradicted  her  words,  "  If  't  were 
not  for  custom,"  she  added,  "  and  if  't  were  deemed 
proper  for  a  maid  to  walk  alone  upon  the  crowded 
streets,  I  might  not  be  leaning  so  docilely  upon 
your  arm." 

The  doctor  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  Then  thank 
God  for  custom  !  "  he  ejaculated  emphatically. 

He  looked  with  lingering  tenderness  into  the 
face  upturned  to  his.  It  was  a  face  of  rare  beauty, 
a  beauty  of  expression  rather  than  of  physical  per 
fection,  a  changeful  face,  the  color  coming  and 
going,  the  e}'-es  darkening  and  lighting  with  each 
fresh-coming  thought  and  fancy.  There  was  about 
it,  as  about  Sally  herself,  an  individual  sweetness 
and  winsomeness.  Sally  was  different  from  those 
grand  dames  who  had  smiled  upon  him  from  char 
iot  windows,  as  the  meadow-blown  rose  was  dif 
ferent  from  its  carefully  nurtured  sisters  of  the  hot 
house,  so  the  doctor  determined.  Hers  was  the 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  Ill 

freshness,  the  originality,  the  purity  like  that  which 
comes  with  the  dew  of  the  morning  and  the  breath 
of  the  open  country. 

Just  now  the  face  she  raised  to  his  was  eloquent 
with  the  gladness  of  loving  and  being  loved. 
There  was  something  infectious  about  such  glad 
ness.  A  glimmer  of  its  spirit  fell  upon  the  doctor. 
"She  is  happy,"  he  thought.  "May  not  I  forget 
for  the  moment  and  be  happy  with  her  ?  The  pres 
ent  is  ours  to  live  and  enjoy."  And  with  the  re 
flection,  there  came  comfort  and  a  certain  shadowy 
sort  of  happiness. 

They  had  passed  through  the  crowd  almost  with 
out  realizing  it.  A  country  road  stretched  before 
them,  a  country  road  that  has  since  changed  its  as 
pect  and  become  the  scene  of  city  sights  and  city 
noises.  Then,  when  Sally  and  the  doctor  knew  it, 
wild  flowers  grew  along  its  edge  and  its  circuitous 
course  led  past  duck  pond,  whortleberry  marsh, 
and  hay-field. 

The  sun  was  near  to  setting  when  Sally  and  the 
doctor  turned  into  the  road.  A  ruddy  splendor 
glowed  on  the  western  moorland  and  lingered  about 
the  hay-stacks  and  in  the  quiet  pools  where  yellow 
water-lilies  bloomed.  The  lowing  of  the  cattle  and 
the  good-night  twitter  of  the  birds  announced  the 
close  of  day. 

A  ploughman  in  field  regimentals  returning  from 
his  day's  work,  his  dog  following  at  his  heels,  came 
toward  them  down  the  long,  shaded  vista  of  the 


118    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

road.  As  he  passed,  the  doctor  raised  his  hat  and 
nodded.  "  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir,"  he  said 
courteously.  The  man  was  one  of  his  unpaying 
patients. 

Sally  looked  up  into  the  doctor's  face  and  smiled. 
"  Do  you  know  why  I  love  you  —  one  reason  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  mused  the  doctor,  half 
jestingly,  half  seriously. 

"  'T  is  because  of  your  big  soul,"  she  declared. 
"  Your  cordial  greeting  knows  no  distinction  be 
tween  your  wealthiest  patron  and  your  poorest 
charity  patient." 

"  The  poor  are  my  best  patients,"  he  rejoined ; 
"  God  is  their  paymaster." 

Sally's  praise  was  sweet  to  the  doctor,  and  yet  it 
brought  with  it  a  sense  of  future  loss  that  changed 
this  sweet  to  bitter.  For  the  moment  he  could  not 
see  her  because  of  the  sudden  dimness  in  his  eyes. 

He  looked  away  to  the  western  horizon.  The 
sun  had  set,  but  an  afterglow  still  lingered  in  the 
sky.  He  read  a  sadness  in  the  dying  colors.  They 
told  of  change,  of  perishableness,  of  death. 

"  It  has  been  a  fine  day,"  he  said.  To  himself  it 
seemed  as  though  he  spoke  of  a  lost  friend. 

"  A  fine  day,"  Sally  responded,  and  the  careless 
ness  of  her  tone  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
doctor's  sorrowing  mood,  "  but  not  an  uncommon 
day.  Therefore  in  a  week  or  so  I  dare  say  't  will  be 
entirely  forgotten." 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  119 

The  doctor  smiled  faintly.  There  was  often  in 
Sally's  conversation,  as  now,  a  light  cynicism  of  a 
very  girlish  sort,  more  feigned  than  real.  It  added 
to  her  originality  and  piquancy  and  it  amused  the 
doctor.  Just  now,  however,  it  jarred  a  little.  It 
was  not  in  sympathy  with  his  thoughts. 

"  'T  is  the  same  with  the  wreather  and  mankind," 
continued  Sally,  unconscious  of  the  irony  of  her 
words  and  of  their  effect  upon  the  doctor.  "  Only 
the  extreme  in  both  is  remembered.  I  often  think 
it  a  great  ingratitude  that  the  commonplace  good 
and  wise  folks  are  forgotten,  while  others  not  so 
good  and  wise  have  their  names  handed  down  to 
posterity  because  this  one  or  that  one  has  been 
accounted  the  best  hairdresser  or  the  best  fiddle- 
maker  of  his  time." 

The  doctor  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "  Curi 
osity  's  another  name  for  man,"  he  rejoined,  quoting 
from  Thomas  Godfrey,  a  popular  young  poet  of 
the  day : 

"  '  The  blazing  meteor  streaming  thro'  the  air 
Commands  our  wonder  and  admiring  eyes. 
With  eager  gaze  we  trace  the  lucent  paths, 
Till,  spent  at  last,  it  strikes  to  native  nothing; 
While  the  bright  stars  which  ever  steady  glow, 
Unheeded  shine  and  bless  the  world  below.' 

"  Which  would  you  rather  be,  Sally,  the  blazing 
meteor  or  the  bright  unheeded  star  ?  " 

Sally  smiled,  a  quiet  contented  sort  of  smile. 
•"  There  is  little  of  the  meteor  character  in  my 


120    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

composition,"  she  said.  "  You  will  have  to  do  the 
blazing  for  both  of  us,  I  fear." 

Her  eyes  sought  the  western  horizon.  There, 
above  the  last  rose  flush,  a  star  shone  pale  and 
solitary,  and  with  a  beckoning  light.  "  Look ! " 
she  said,  directing  the  doctor's  gaze  to  it.  "  There 
I  am  —  or  there  I  will  be  —  for  when  I  die  my  soul 
shall  find  some  little  star  like  that,  and  there  watch 
over  the  world  —  and  you." 

The  little  star  blurred  before  the  doctor's  eyes, 
and  his  heart  throbbed  with  the  pain  that  Sally's 
words  conveyed.  But  Sally  was  unconscious  of 
his  suffering.  She  spoke  as  one  to  whom  death 
was  as  yet  a  far-off  thing,  vague  and  untangible. 

Realizing  this,  and  wishing  to  keep  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  fate  from  her  as  long  as  possible,  the 
doctor  made  a  supreme  effort  for  self-control,  and 
then  remarked  with  careful  carelessness,  "  You 
forget,  Sally,  long  before  your  advent  as  a  star,  in 
my  character  of  blazing  meteor  I  shall  probably 
have  '  struck  to  native  nothing.' ' 

Sally's  brow  clouded,  but  cleared  almost  instantly 
in  a  bright  smile.  "  You  shall  not  be  a  blazing 
meteor,"  she  said.  "We  will  find  something 
better,"  and  she  studiously  searched  the  great 
glimmer  of  the  sky  for  a  heavenly  body  worthy  of 
her  lover.  True  love  knows  no  proportions. 

Sally's  contemplation  of  heavenly  bodies,  how 
ever,  was  very  soon  interrupted  by  things  more 
close  at  hand.  They  had  come  to  the  dark,  flow- 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  121 

ing  waters  of  "  Coxon's  Creek,"  and  as  they  crossed 
the  rude  wooden  bridge  that  arched  it,  there  before 
them  stood  the  little  vineclad  farmhouse  that  was 
Sally's  home.  Lights  were  shining  in  the  windows, 
the  scent  of  clover  and  of  new-mown  hay  was  in 
the  air,  and  from  the  orchard  near  by  a  song  spar 
row,  sweetest  of  summer  warblers,  was  pouring 
forth  his  evening  voluntary.  The  spirit  of  a  cheery 
and  domestic  calm  breathed  about  the  place. 

Sally  turned  at  the  gate,  as  though  to  say  good 
night.  But  the  doctor  would  not  let  her  go  from 
his  sight.  "I  may  come  in  and  drink  tea  with 
you?"  he  pleaded. 

Sally  regarded  him  in  pleased  surprise.  "  I  had 
thought  you  were  too  busy,"  she  explained. 

"  And  may  not  a  doctor  have  a  holiday  now  and 
then  as  well  as  other  men?"  he  protested,  as  they 
walked  up  the  path  together,  hand  in  hand. 

Sally's  home  was  a  simple,  unpretentious  little 
farmhouse,  but  none  the  less  there  was  an  air  of 
quiet  elegance  about  it.  At  one  time  Sally's 
father,  who  was  a  sea-captain,  had  been  a  prosper 
ous  gentleman.  He  and  his  family  had  lived  "  in 
very  comfortable  circumstances,"  so  it  is  reported, 
"  in  a  large  stone  house,"  in  the  most  aristocratic 
quarter  of  the  Quaker  capital.  His  children  had 
received  a  fine  education  and  had  "  moved  in  Phil- 
delphia  best  society."  It  was  only  recently  that 
the  Captain  had  met  with  reverses  and  withdrawn 
to  the  farm.  The  farm  was  being  run  by  Mrs.  Eve, 


122    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

Sally,  and  the  younger  boys.  Captain  Eve  and 
his  two  elder  sons  were  away  on  a  long  cruise  to 
the  West  Indies.  But,  though  the  Eves  had  lost 
their  fortune,  they  had  not  lost  their  culture  and 
refinement  and  the  good  taste  that  can  transform 
even  a  simple  and  unpretentious  little  farmhouse 
into  a  pleasant,  attractive  home. 

Mrs.  Eve  and  the  boys  —  Sally's  brothers — were 
already  at  their  tea-drinking,  when  Sally  and  the 
doctor  entered.  The  room  was  bright  with  a  soft 
candle-light.  Steam  issued  from  the  generous 
china  tea-pot  over  which  Mrs.  Eve  presided,  and 
the  aroma  of  the  favorite  colonial  beverage  filled 
the  air. 

.  Sally  would  have  played  hostess  and  waited  on 
the  doctor,  but  he  insisted  that  she  sit  down  and 
passed  her  tea  to  her  and  saw  that  she  was  served 
before  he  himself  would  touch  a  mouthful.  "  She 
is  tired,"  he  explained  to  her  mother.  "  She  has 
been  disobeying  doctor's  orders  again  and  running 
away.  I  have  with  difficulty  brought  her  back." 

Mrs.  Eve,  a  sweet^faced  woman  of  Quaker  ante 
cedents,  regarded  Sally  anxiously:  "  Thee  looks 
tired,  child,"  she  said,  and  then  turning  to  the 
boys,  "  Joseph,  pour  out  some  cordial  for  thy  sister, 
and  William,  thee  had  best  close  the  window  there 
behind  her ;  there  is  a  dampness  in  the  evening  air." 

Sally  laughed  at  the  fuss  that  was  being  made 
about  her.  "  One  would  think  I  were  an  invalid," 
she  protested. 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  123 

When  tea  was  finished  and  cleared  away,  the 
boys  went  out  to  do  some  last  things  about  the 
farm,  Mrs.  Eve  seated  herself  beside  the  table  and 
the  candle-light  with  her  knitting,  and  Sally  and 
the  doctor  went  over  to  Sally's  little  spinet. 

Sally  began  running  her  fingers  gently  over  the 
keys,  and  the  doctor  sat  beside  her,  listening  to  her 
playing  with  half-closed  eyes.  What  a  fair  sight 
this  was  before  him  —  the  candle-lit  room,  the  books 
upon  the  shelves,  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  Mrs. 
Eve  beside  the  table  with  her  knitting,  and  the 
dear  girl  at  the  spinet !  And  how  terrible  the 
thought  that  this  fair  sight  must  so  soon  be 
marred  ! 

What  were  the  words  Sally's  sweet  voice  was 
singing  ? 

"  '  My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss ; 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven ; 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his. 

"  '  His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  : 
He  loves  my  heart  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides ; 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his.'" 

Sally  ended  and  looked  at  the  doctor,  a  soft 
light  shining  in  her  e^  es.  Her  hands  went  out  to 
his  and  his  lips  touched  her  forehead. 


124    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

"  That  song  was  writ  for  you  and  me,  Sally,"  he 
whispered. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  Sir  Philip  Sydney  wrote 
it  for  us  two  hundred  years  ago." 

A  moment  later  they  turned  to  Mrs.  Eve  at  the 
table.  "  I  will  join  you  with  my  knitting,  mother," 
Sally  said,  "  and  the  doctor  shall  read  to  us." 

She  went  immediately  to  get  her  knitting  and, 
when  she  was  gone,  the  doctor  walked  over  to  the 
table  slowly  but  resolutely.  He  stood  beside  it, 
looking  down  at  Mrs.  Eve.  The  weary  expression 
was  in  his  eyes  and  something  like  compassion 
too. 

"  How  has  Sally  seemed  to  you  of  late  ? "  he 
asked,  rather  abruptly. 

Mrs.  Eve  was  counting  her  stitches.  She  waited 
to  finish  her  count,  and  then  answered,  without 
raising  her  eyes,  "  A  little  tired  and  listless,  but 
she  has  complained  of  no  pain  since  the  last  at 
tack.  I  think  that  she  is  better." 

The  doctor's  lips  tightened,  and  when  he  spoke, 
it  was  with  a  great  effort. 

"  'T  is  hard  to  be  a  doctor  and  see  the  future," 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Eve  looked  up  quickly,  apprehensively, 
from  her  knitting.  His  expression  even  more 
than  his  words  alarmed  her.  "  Thee  does  not 
mean  —  thee  does  not  fear  —  "  she  faltered. 

The  doctor  answered  with  sad  eyes  and  with  a 
lowering  of  his  head.  His  hand  went  out  across 


THE    PASSING    OF    A    SWEETHEART.  125 

the  table  to  hers  and  held  it,  for  a  moment,  in  a 
firm,  steadying  clasp.  Then,  "Sally  is  coining 
back,"  he  said  in  warning  tones  under  his  breath. 

Sally  entered  with  a  light,  free-and-easy  step, 
her  work-bag  swinging  on  her  arm.  "You  look 
like  a  pair  of  conspirators,"  she  commented  gayly, 
sitting  down  beside  the  table  and  taking  her  knit 
ting  from  her  bag. 

Her  needles  began  to  click  industriously.  There 
was  something  very  beautiful  in  her  sweet  uncon 
sciousness,  her  childlike  absence  of  all  suspicion. 
"  I  hope  you  have  decided  what  you  are  going  to 
read  to  us^professorf" 

She  spoke  the  last  word  with  an  amused  pucker 
of  the  lips  and  a  sly  glance  over  at  the  doctor ; 
ever  since  the  doctor  had  been  made  a  professor  of 
the  Medical  College  of  Philadelphia,  along  with 
other  older  and  more  experienced  physicians,  his 
title  had  been  a  joke  with  Sally  and  a  matter  of 
pride  as  well. 

The  doctor  smiled  at  the  word.  He,  too,  had 
taken  a  seat  beside  the  table,  and  at  Sally's  ques 
tion  he  began  looking  over  the  books  ranged  before 
him. 

"  'T  is  for  you  ladies  to  decide,"  he  said.  "  Here 
is  an  interesting  array :  '  The  Adventures  of  the 
Renowned  Don  Quixote,'  Cumberland's  '  Fashion 
able  Lover,'  a  prodigious  fine  comedy,  I  under 
stand,  did  you  not  say  so,  Sally?  Godfrey's 
poems,  several  familiar-looking  little  volumes  with 


126    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

Shakspere's  name  upon  the  cover,  and  last  but  not 
least  '  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  '  an  —  excellent 
variety.  Which  will  you  choose  ?  " 

"  Mother  will  say  the  '  Almanac,'  by  all  means," 
declared  Sally.  "  She  thinks  that  a  most  wonder 
ful  production  and  was  much  shocked  the  other- 
day  when  I  boasted  that  I  could  publish  one  as 
good,  did  I  but  take  it  into  my  head  to  set  down 
the  exact  time  of  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun 
every  day,  the  southing  of  the  moon,  and  how  often 
the  wind  changed,  adding  to  this  tally  a  collection 
of  some  few  recipes,  old  sayings,  and  scraps  of 
poetry.  I  really  think  I  shall  have  to  bring  out  a 
'  Poor  Sally's  Almanac '  some  day,  if  only  to  prove 
to  my  mother  that  she  overestimates  'Poor  Richard ' 
and  underestimates  her  own  daughter.  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  so  queerly,  mother?  Am  I  be 
coming  too  saucy,  too  impudent?''  And  Sally's 
eyes  gazed  into  her  mother's  questioningly,  teas- 
ingly,  fondly. 

Mrs.  Eve's  eyes  dropped  to  her  knitting,  and  the 
faint  glimmer  of  a  smile  lighted  her  gentle  face. 
"  I  know  thee  loves  well  to  plague  thy  mother, 
Sally,  because  of  her  liking  for  '  Poor  Richard,' " 
she  said. 

Dr.  Rush  glanced  at  Mrs.  Eve  admiringly.  He 
blessed  that  calmness,  that  quiet  courage  that  was 
her  heritage  from  a  long  line  of  Quaker  ancestors. 
She  would  help  him,  he  reflected,  to  keep  from 
Sally  the  knowledge  of  her  fate. 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  127 

But  he  realized  how  hard  it  must  be  for  Mrs. 
Eve  just  now,  with  that  same  knowledge  fresh 
upon  her,  to  meet  Sally's  merry  banter.  He  wished 
to  save  her  as  much  as  possible.  "  Sally,"  he  inter 
posed,  "  for  shame,  to  tease  your  mother  so ! 
Wait,  I  will  turn  your  mocking  laughter  to  tears 
by  reading  to  you  from  the  sad  stoiy  of  '  Romeo 
and  Juliet.' " 

"  Romeo  and  Juliet "  was  the  poem  of  Shak- 
spere's  that  Sally  and  the  doctor  had  read  oftenest 
together.  The  sufferings  of  those  ill-starred  lovers 
were  very  interesting  to  them  in  their  happy,  hope 
ful  love.  The  little  worn  volume,  which  in  the 
days  of  its  newness  had  been  a  present  from  him  to 
her,  had  gone  with  them  on  many  of  their  wander 
ings  to  the  shadowy  retreats  and  secret  corners  of 
the  farm,  and  the  mayflowers,  gathered  in  early 
spring  and  pressed  between  the  leaves,  which  now 
looked  out  at  him,  shedding  a  perfume  as  sweet 
and  sad  as  the  memory  of  a  hope  departed,  re 
minded  him  of  the  time,  not  very  long  ago,  when 
Sally  had  been  well  and  strong  and  when,  in  his 
thoughts  of  the  future  and  of  her,  he  had  not  yet 
travelled  to  the  valley  of  the  shadow. 

That  night,  in  the  candle-lit  room,  conscious 
always  of  the  nearness  of  that  mysterious  valley, 
he  read  a  new  meaninofin  the  immortal  lines.  For 

O 

the  first  time  he  realized  the  pathos  of  the  last 
parting  of  the  lovers,  the  cruelty  of  their  divided 
fates  which  death  only  could  unite. 


128    THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART. 

During  the  reading  —  it  was  a  reading  of  favorite 
passages,  of  course  time  would  not  permit  a  reading 
of  the  whole  poem  —  Mrs.  Eve  slipped  away.  The 
doctor  wondered  in  which  of  the  rooms  above  she 
was  sitting  by  herself,  learning  to  face  her  sorrow. 

He  was  alone  with  Sally.  He  looked  across  to 
where  she  sat,  and  felt,  more  keenly  than  ever 
before,  how  inexpressibly  sweet  was  the  charm  of 
her  presence  and  her  sympathy.  As  he  read  the 
poet's  beautiful  thoughts,  he  watched  their  reflec 
tions  in  her  face  and  he  found  the  reflections  more 
beautiful  than  the  thoughts  themselves. 

When  he  had  finished,  Sally  looked  up  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  You  have  read  it  wonderfully,"  she 
said.  And  when  he  made  a  move  to  go,  she 
quoted  smilingly,  "  '  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  It  is  not 
yet  near  day.' ' 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door  to  say  a  last 
good-night.  He,  as  he  stood  on  the  porch  looking 
back  to  her  in  the  doorway,  noticed  that  the  light 
from  the  hallway  behind  her  made  a  halo  of  her 
golden  crown.  "  My  queen  is  fast  becoming  a 
saint,"  he  reflected  sorrowfully. 

The  thought  brought  him  back  to  her  side. 
There  must  be  one  more  good-night.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  gazed  tenderly,  searchingly,  into 
her  upturned  face.  He  saw  that  her  mind  was 
busy  with  some  serious  thought.  "  Sally,  sweet 
heart,  of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  she  answered.     "  I  was 


THE    PASSING    OF   A    SWEETHEART.  129 

thinking  of  how  fortunate  they  were,  how  much 
more  fortunate  than  their  hateful,  quarrelsome 
families.  Their  families  never  really  lived.  But 
Romeo  and  Juliet  —  they  loved  and  lived."  She 
looked  into  the  doctor's  face,  a  wonderful  smile 
broke  in  the  dark  depths  of  her  eyes.  "  And  I  — " 
she  said.  "  Do  you  know,  dear,  if  I  should  die  to 
morrow,  I  would  not  care  —  so  very  much ;  for  I 
too  have  loved,  I  have  really  lived." 

That  happened  in  midsummer.  The  first  snow 
of  winter  was  on  the  ground  when  Sally  died. 
There  were  those  who  said  that  the  white  flakes  as 
they  fell  from  heaven  were  not  more  pure  than  the 
sweet  soul  just  ascended. 

Shortly  after  Sally's  death  a  touching  tribute  to 
her  memory  appeared  in  the  "  Pennsylvania  Pack 
et."  It  was  rumored  to  have  been  written  by  "  the 
pen  of  her  afflicted  lover."  "  But  alas  for  the  con 
stancy  of  man  !  "  says  the  record,  "  the  same  paper 
not  so  very  long  after  gives  notice  of  the  marriage 
of  Dr.  Benjamin  Rush  to  Miss  Julia  Stockton," 
and  we  are  later  informed  that  the  doctor  made  a 
most  devoted  husband  and  an  affectionate  father. 

Here  the  record  ends.  It  does  not  tell  us  what 
were  the  doctor's  thoughts  as,  many  an  evening,  he 
looked  westward  to  a  little  star  dimly  shining 
above  the  last  rose  flush  of  the  dying  day.  Perhaps, 
could  we  know  the  thoughts  the  little  star  inspired, 
we  would  not  believe  that  Sally  was  forgotten. 


VIII. 
A  STRAIN  FROM   THE  MISCHIANZA. 

"  WELL,  ladies,  what  is  the  verdict  ?  Is  the 
Mischianza  to  be  termed  a  success  ?  " 

It  was  John  Andre"  who  spoke,  and  the  ladies  he 
addressed  were  several  of  the  ladies  of  the  Blended 
Rose  and  Burning  Mountain  who,  escorted  by  their 
knights,  had  retired  from  the  dance  awhile,  to  re 
fresh  themselves  with  sips  of  ice-tea  and  lemonade, 
and  such  other  cooling  drinks  as  were  to  be  had,  on 
pretty  little  garden  tables,  in  the  hall  adjoining  the 
ball-room. 

A  feminine  chorus  of  "  Oh's  "  and  "  Ah's,"  and 
more  words  equally  appreciative  greeted  the  Cap 
tain's  question.  The  knights  and  other  gentlemen 
who  were  in  attendance  on  the  ladies  laughed  at 
their  pretty  enthusiasms  and  one,  not  a  knight 
either  of  the  Blended  Rose  or  Burning  Mountain, 
but  an  undisguised  British  colonel  resplendent  in 
red  coat,  gold  epaulets,  and  ribboned  orders,  Colonel 
Johnson  of  the  twenty-eighth,  he  who  was  soon  to 
marry  the  witty  Miss  Franks  behind  whose  chair 
he  was  standing,  remarked  somewhat  dryly  with  a 
humorous  lift  of  the  brows,  "  It  appears  that  you 
ladies  do  not  entertain  the  same  opinion  of  the 

J30 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.     131 

Mischianza  as  does  a  certain  acquaintance  of  mine, 
an  old  artillery  officer  at  headquarters." 

The  ladies  raised  inquiring  eyes  to  the  Colonel, 
and  John  Andre"  asked  smilingly,  « Does  the  old 
gentleman  disapprove  ?  " 

"  So  I  should  judge  from  his  language,"  answered 
the  Colonel.  "  I  overheard  a  child  ask  him  the 
difference  between  the  Knights  of  the  Mountain 
and  the  Rose,  and  the  old  officer  replied,  '  Why, 
child,  the  Knights  of  the  Burning  Mountain  are 
torn-fools  and  the  Knights  of  the  Blended  Rose 
are  damn  fools  —  I  know  of  no  other  difference 
between  them.' " 

The  men  laughed  at  the  story.  But  the  ladies 
protested.  That  any  one  should  use  such  lan 
guage  of  their  knights  !  It  was  shocking,  shame 
ful  !  They  were  loud  in  their  praises  of  the  heroes 
of  the  Blended  Rose  and  Burning  Mountain. 

The  heroes  bowed  low.  The  commendations  of 
their  ladies  were  verj  "ratifying  to  them,  they  re 
marked.  Andre,  however,  shook  his  head  and 
regarded  the  assembled  femininity  with  rallying 
glance. 

"  They  are  all  for  us  now,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  men.  "But  how  will  it  be  when 
the  stern  fortune  of  war  calls  us  hence  and  our 
places  in  fair  Philadelphia  are  taken  perchance  by 
the  colonial  troops  ?  " 

"  Your  places  in  fair  Philadelphia  may  be  taken, 
but  not  your  places  with  us ! "  cried  one  loyal 


132     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

maiden.  "  No,  indeed  !  "  echoed  a  second.  And  a 
third,  fairer  than  the  rest,  of  lily-like  grace  and 
dignity,  and  of  a  bright,  vivacious  smile,  declared 
with  a  mock  tenderness  designed  to  tease,  "  We  will 
keep  our  hearths  burning  for  you  always." 

"  Do,  Miss  Peggy,"  said  Andrd,  leaning  over  the 
chair  of  the  last  speaker,  whose  favor  he  wore  on 
his  coat,  and  whose  colors,  white,  pink,  and  red, 
like  his  own,  declared  her  to  be  the  lady  in  whose 
honor  he  appeared  that  evening  as  a  knight  of  the 
Blended  Rose.  "And  at  the  hearths  that  are  to 
burn  for  us  always,"  he  continued,  "  will  you  not 
appoint  certain  objects  to  represent  us  —  the  poker, 
the  tongs,  and  the  shovel,  for  instance  ?  I  should 
feel  surer  of  my  place,  I  think,  if  I  knew  that 
something  was  serving  as  a  perpetual  reminder  of 
me." 

Miss  Peggy  smiled  at  the  Captain's  earnest 
trifling.  "  We  have  Dutch  tiles  at  our  house,  you 
remember,"  she  remarked,  looking  up  with  merry 
glance  into  his  face.  "  You  may  choose  Bible  char 
acters  for  your  representatives  if  you  prefer." 

"  Perhaps  Bible  characters  would  be  more  digni 
fied,"  he  rejoined,  "would  give  us  more  prestige 
with  you  ladies."  He  turned  to  the  men  with 
charming  enthusiasm.  "  Tarleton,  you  shall  have 
Moses  to  represent  you  and  De  Lancey  here  shall 
have  Adam,  and  I  will  have  " 

"Balaam's  ass?"  sweetly  inquired  a  voice  from 
the  vicinity  of  Colonel  Johnson. 


A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.     133 

Andre*  laughed  good-naturedly  and  answered 
without  looking,  "  Miss  Franks  has  said  it. 
Balaam's  ass  shall  represent  me.  I  hope  you  will 
treat  the  poor  animal  kindly,  Miss  Peggy."  He 
laughed  again.  His  laugh  was  infectious  and 
every  one  joined  in  it. 

In  the  lull  that  followed  the  general  merriment 
Major  Tarleton,  the  most  dashingly  handsome  of 
all  the  officers  present,  and  whose  costume,  the 
orange  and  black  that  designated  him  a  knight  of 
the  Burning  Mountain,  was  deemed  vastly  becom 
ing  by  the  ladies,  raised  his  glass  high  in  air  and 
addressed  the  men,  "  A  health  to  the  ladies  of  the 
Burning  Mountain  and  Blended  Rose,  gentlemen," 
he  cried. 

The  gentlemen  responded  gallantly.  But  when 
the  health  had  been  drunk,  Miss  Peggy  remarked 
with  a  look  of  sly  challenge  for  those  who  drank, 
"  'T  is  to  us  that  you  drink  now,  but  soon  our 
healths  will  be  forgotten  and  you  will  be  drinking 
to  the  ladies  of  Baltimore,  or  of  New  York,  or  of 
Boston  with  the  same  heartiness  with  which  you 
now  drink  to  us." 

"Never,"  came  in  chorus  from  the  gentlemen, 
and  Major  Tarleton  declared,  "  'T  will  be  our 
Philadelphia  friends,  even  when  Philadelphia  and 
all  its  charming  citizenesses  have  been  left  far 
behind ;  eh,  Andre*  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  yes,"  echoed  the  Captain.  "  '  Here  's 
to  the  ladies  of  the  Rose  and  the  Mountain,'  as  to- 


134     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

night  so  again  and  again  Major  Tarleton  will  cry. 
*  With  all  my  soul,'  I  will  exclaim.  '  Allons,'  will 
respond  Johnson,  De  Lancey,  and  the  rest.  The 
draft  will  seem  nectar,  and  the  libation  made,  we 
will  talk  upon  the  uncloyiug  theme  of  the  charms 
of  the  fair  Philadelphians,  and  so  beguile  many  a 
gloomy  hour  when  we  are  far  from  you." 

"  What  smooth  tongues  these  gentlemen  have  !  " 
commented  Peggy  in  a  loud  whisper  behind  her 
fan  to  Miss  Redman,  the  young  woman  who  sat 
next  her,  and  over  her  fan  her  eyes  peered  up  laugh 
ingly  into  the  faces  of  the  English  officers. 

Miss  Redman  nodded,  and  she  also  retired 
behind  her  fan.  "  One  would  think  to  hear  them 
talk,"  she  responded,  "  that  they  had  found  Phila 
delphia  pleasanter  than  any  other  city  in  the 
land." 

The  officers  smiled  down  upon  the  whisperers, 
and  Andrd  declared,  with  the  earnestness  and  en 
thusiasm  that  made  his  merest  nothings  so  delight 
ful,  "  And  so  we  have  in  very  truth.  What  your 
witty  Dr.  Franklin  said  of  our  general  may  be  said 
of  all  our  officers.  'T  is  not  so  much  that  we  have 
taken  Philadelphia  as  that  Philadelphia  has  taken 
us.  Is  not  that  so,  gentlemen  ? "  And  he  ap 
pealed  to  his  companions  in  arms,  who  straightway 
added  their  protestations  to  his. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  ball-room  adjoining,  sets  were 
forming  for  the  quadrille,  and  several  gentlemen  in 
search  of  their  partners  were  approaching  the 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.      135 

merry  group  of  which  Andrd  and  Miss  Peggy 
were  members.  Presently  Miss  Franks  went  off 
from  the  group  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Sir  William 
Howe,  and  Peggy  followed  with  Lord  Rawdon. 

As  the  two  couples  entered  the  ball-room,  Sir 
Henry  Clinton  was  heard  calling  upon  the  grena 
dier  band,  that  accompanied  the  dancers,  to  play 
"  Britons,  strike  home  !  " 

"Britons,  go  home,  you  mean,"  corrected  Miss 
Franks,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  fun  as  they  passed 
Sir  Henry. 

A  general  laugh  ensued.  It  was  impossible  to 
resist  Miss  Franks'  wit.  Even  the  subjects  of  it 
were  captured  by  it. 

Miss  Peggy  observed  a  smile  on  her  partner's 
habitually  frowning  countenance,  and  with  a  sly 
look  she  inquired,  "Does  your  lordship  approve 
of  such  a  rebel  speech  ?  " 

His  lordship,  still  smiling,  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders.  "  If  a  man  had  said  that,"  he  remarked,  "  he 
would  have  swung  for  it ;  but  a  woman  says  it  and 
is  applauded  —  a  proof,  Miss  Chew,  that  while  we 
are  endeavoring  to  subjugate  the  men  of  this 
country  we  are  being  enslaved  by  the  women." 

Miss  Peggy  Chew  laughed  gayly  in  answer.  The 
gallantry  and  homage  which  she  was  receiving  that 
evening  were  very  pleasing  to  her.  She  moved 
through  the  measures  of  the  quadrille,  the  minuet, 
and  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  her  head  held 
high,  her  lips  smiling,  and  her  eyes  dancing  with 


136     A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

satisfaction  and  delight.  She  liked  it  well,  that 
scene  of  extravagant  frivolity,  the  lights,  the  music, 
the  slow,  graceful  movement  of  the  dances,  the 
splendor  of  the  crimson  coats  and  brocaded  gowns, 
the  glitter  of  jewels,  epaulets,  and  medals,  the 
passing  reflections  in  the  mirrors,  the  scent  of  per 
fume,  and  the  dust  of  powder  shaken  from  queue 
and  head-dress  that  were  in  the  air.  The  color, 
the  life,  the  fun  of  it  all  charmed  her. 

She  entered  with  spirit  into  the  small  talk  that 
was  the  order  of  the  occasion.  She  discussed  the 
latest  cricket  match  with  one  officer,  and  with 
another  she  condoled  upon  the  loss  of  his  pet 
spaniel.  She  commented  upon  the  apparent  cruelty 
of  'Dr.  Shippen  in  denying  his  daughters,  Peggy's 
friends,  the  pleasure  of  taking  part  in  the  Mischi- 
anza  ;  the  girls,  she  asserted,  were  in  a  "  dancing 
fury,"  and  thought  their  papa  had  chosen  an  in 
opportune  time  and  a  most  unpleasant  way  of 
showing  his  rebel  sentiments.  She  wondered  with 
the  rest  of  the  Mischianza  world  as  to  whether 
Lord  Cathcart's  flirtation  with  Miss  Eliot  would 
end  in  an  .engagement.  She  hoped  so  for  Miss 
Eliot's  sake,  she  declared,  for  the  girl  was  in 
earnest  and  't  would  be  a  pity  if  she  should  be 
obliged  to  learn  that  "  tender  looks  are  meant  but 
to  deceive." 

Most  of  all  Peggy  talked  about  that  of   which 
she  and  all  with  whom  she  talked  were  a  part  — 
the  Mischianza  itself,  the  magnificent  fete  that  was 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.     137 

honoring  Sir  William  Howe  who  was  so  soon  to 
resign  his  command  and  return  to  England.  The 
regatta  on  the  river  that  began  the  fete,  its  colors, 
its  streamers,  and  its  loud  salutes  was  dwelt 
upon  and  praised.  So,  too,  was  the  mock  tourna 
ment  between  the  Knights  of  the  Rose  and  the 
Mountain  that  had  followed  the  regatta.  The 
decorations  of  the  ball-room  were  admired,  and  the 
costumes  of  the  knights  and  ladies. 

"  'T  was  all  Andre's  work,"  one  after  another 
remarked  to  Peggy.  "  We  never  could  have  done 
the  thing  but  for  Andre.  There  never  was  a  more 
clever  man  than  he  with  the  pen,  the  pencil,  and 
the  brush." 

And  Peggy  secretly  rejoiced  in  the  praises  of 
her  knight  and  was  proud  to  think  that  she  was 
the  chosen  lady  of  one  who  was  so  universally 
regarded  as  "  the  charm  of  the  company." 

With  the  rest  of  that  throng  of  joyous  men  and 
women  that  the  Mischianza  had  assembled,  Peggy 
applauded  the  display  of  fireworks  which,  in  the 
midst  of  the  dancing,  called  them  to  windows, 
doors,  and  porches  to  learn  in  letters  of  light  amid 
bursting  balloons  and  rockets  that  the  •'  Lauriers  " 
of  the  departing  general  "  Sont  Immortels." 

At  midnight  supper  was  announced.  Folding 
doors,  that  had  been  "  artfully  concealed,"  parting, 
disclosed  what  was  termed  by  the  company  "a 
magnificent  saloon."  Pier-glasses  and  branches 
of  lights  festooned  with  garlands  of  ribbon  and 


138      A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

artificial  flowers  adorned  the  walls ;  lustres  hung 
suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  side-boards  abundantly 
heaped  with  goodies  stood  in  niches  in  the  wall ; 
tables  promiscuously  placed  were  lighted  with 
numerous  waxen  tapers  ;  negro  slaves  in  turbans 
and  oriental  costumes  with  silver  collars  and  brace 
lets  stood  about  the  tables  in  readiness  to  serve ; 
and  a  hidden  orchestra  was  heard  playing,  softly, 
romantic  strains  of  music.  About  the  whole  there 
was  an  air  of  mystery  and  enchantment. 

All  through  supper  Peggy  chatted  vivaciously, 
merrily.  From  her  place  at  the  general's  table, 
beside  Andre",  "  the  bright  particular  star  "  of  the 
evening,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  rank  and  fash 
ion,  wit  and  beauty,  she  distributed  her  smiles  and 
glances  with  the  grace  that  designated  her  a  social 
queen.  In  that  scene  of  brilliance  and  frivolity 
she  was  in  her  element,  and  the  gay  world  about 
her  was  the  gayer  for  her  charming  presence. 

The  supper  hour  wore  to  a  close.  At  the  last 
the  healths  of  the  King,  the  Queen,  the  Royal 
Family,  the  Army  and  the  Navy,  the  General  and 
the  Admiral,  the  Knights  and  their  Ladies  were 
proclaimed  by  a  herald  and  drunk  by  the  assembled 
company.  The  hidden  orchestra  played  "  God 
Save  the  King,"  which  was  chorused  by  all  present. 
Some  of  the  guests  returned  to  the  ball-room. 
Others,  of  whom  were  Peggy  and  Andre",  still  lin 
gered  in  the  supper  room. 

Presently  Montressor,  the  chief  engineer  of  the 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  M1SCHIANZA.     139 

army  and  one  of  the  four  managers  of  the  fete  that 
evening,  turned  to  Andr6  and  said,  "  Our  friend, 
Captain  Andre,  ivS,  as  usual,  in  excellent  spirits  this 
evening.  We  all  know  what  a  delightful  song 
bird  he  is.  Will  he  not  favor  us  on  this  present 
great  occasion  ?  " 

The  suggestion  was  greeted  with  applause,  and 
Andre",  smiling  his  thanks  upon  the  company,  rose 
and  answered :  "  Yes,  Captain  Montressor,  I  am  in 
excellent  spirits  this  evening,  as  who  could  help  but 
be  on  such  an  occasion  and  in  such  company.  It  will 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  comply  with  your  request. 
I  will  sing  the  old  camp  song,  the  soldiers'  favorite 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  ladies'  favorite  as  well. 

He  sang : 

u  i  Why,  soldiers,  why 

Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 

Why,  soldiers,  why, 

Whose  business  't  is  to  die  ? 

For  should  next  campaign 

Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys, 

We  're  free  from  pain  ; 

But  should  we  remain, 

A  bottle  and  kind  landlady 

Makes  all  well  again. 


'Why,  soldiers,  why 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 
Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Whose  business  'tis  to  die? 
What  sighing?    Fie ! 
Drown  fear,  drink  on,  be  jolly,  boys, 
'T  is  he,  you,  or  I. '  " 


140     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

He  sang  the  song  with  sweetness  and  pathos.  As 
Peggy  listened,  the  real  meaning  of  the  scarlet 
coats  and  gold  epaulets  about  her,  a  meaning  that 
she  had  quite  forgotten  all  that  evening,  in  the 
midst  of  the  dancing,  the  feasting,  and  the  general 
merry-making,  was  brought  home  to  her.  She 
thought  of  these  men,  whom  she  now  saw  appar 
ently  so  care-free  and  debonair,  on  the  battlefield, 
fighting,  wounded,  dying.  She  glanced  up  at 
Andre",  his  dark,  handsome  face  lighted  with  a 
serious,  almost  a  sad  look,  an  accompaniment  of 
his  song,  and  the  memory  of  a  dream  she  had  had 
only  a  short  while  before  concerning  him  came 
over  her  with  a  vividness  that  frightened  her. 
She  experienced  a  sudden  revulsion  for  the  glitter 
and  gorgeousness  about  her.  The  multitude  of 
lights  and  mirrors,  the  draperies  of  flags  and  gar 
lands  of  flowers,  the  elaborate  costumes  of  the 
men  and  women,  the  smiling  faces,  the  flow  of 
laughter  and  of  flippant  talk  became  to  her  a 
mockery,  a  mask  to  veil  the  real  grimness  and 
hideousness  of  war. 

She  begged  to  be  excused  when  partners  came 
claiming  her  hand  for  the  dances  following  sup 
per.  With  Andr6  at  her  side  she  stepped  out 
upon  the  vine-clad  porch  that  led  from  the  dance 
hall. 

"  You  are  tired,"  said  Andre,  looking  with  gentle 
solicitude  into  her  face. 

"A  little,"  she  answered. 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.      141 

"  The  garden  will  rest  you,"  he  declared.  "  Let 
us  find  a  seat  in  some  quiet  corner." 

They  went  slowly  down  the  garden  path  between 
rows  of  box  and  hemlock.  All  about  them  lanterns 
dangled  from  the  trees,  giving  the  place  a  look  of 
fairyland.  Behind  them  was  the  house,  a  large 
stone  mansion  formerly  the  country  seat  of  a  quiet 
Quaker  gentleman  whose  very  shade  must  have 
blushed  at  the  magnificence  of  the  house  that 
evening.  It  was  one  blaze  of  brilliancy,  and  from 
the  open  doors  and  windows  dance  strains  floated 
down  to  them.  Before  them  lay  the  river,  dark 
and  tranquil,  flecked  with  numerous  glimmerings 
of  light  from  the  galleys  and  fiat  boats  that  were 
at  anchor  there.  It  was  a  mild,  pleasant  night,  that 
eighteenth  of  May  of  the  year  1778.  A  gentle 
breeze  was  stirring  the  leaves,  and  the  air  of  the 
garden  was  sweet  with  the  blended  fragrance  of 
pine  and  apple-blossoms. 

Peggy  found  the  sweet  air  and  the  darkness  re 
freshing.  Her  peace  of  mind  returned  and  she  ceased 
to  think  of  the  grimness  and  hideousness  of  war. 

"  How  tall  and  straight  the  pine-trees  are,"  she 
remarked  softly. 

"  Like  cathedral  spires,"  said  Andre* ;  and  she 
knew  he  must  be  thinking  of  his  home. 

They  found  the  quiet  corner  and  in  its  seclusion 
sat  down  upon  a  garden  seat  that  stood  there. 
They  were  silent  for  a  while,  enjoying  the  fairness 
of  the  night  and  of  the  scene  about  them. 


142     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

Then  Peggy  observed,  "  I  suppose  you  will  write 
of  :all  this  to  England?  " 

He  nodded.  "My  pen  will  never  do  justice 
to  the  ladies  and  their  gowns,"  he  declared. 
"  'T  would  take  a  god  to  describe  them." 

"  Cupid  ?  "  she  inquired,  smiling. 

Andre  looked  at  her  with  answering  smile. 
"  A  moment  ago  you  were  Penserosa,  Now  you 
are  L'Allegro,"  he  said. 

"I  never  should  have  been  Penserosa,"  she 
answered  contritely,  "  for  if  ever  there  was  a  time 
made  for  the  'jest'  and  'youthful  jollity,'  and 
'  the  wreathed  smiles  '  of  which  the  poet  sings,  't  is 
to-night." 

"  Is  it  not  splendid !  "  exclaimed  Andre*,  with 
enthusiasm.  "  Do  you  know,  Miss  Peggy,  it  seems 
to  me  that  to-night  should  be  classed  among  those 
moments  of  which  Rousseau  has  said,  '  There  are 
moments  worth  ages.' " 

"  Yes,"  said  Peggy,  "  and  let  us  hope  life  will 
hold  many  such  moments  for  us."  Then,  after  a 
pause,  "  How  interesting  life  is,"  she  declared, 
"  and  how  mysterious  when  we  try  to  look  into  the 
future ! "  A  dreamy,  far-away  expression  stole 
over  her  face  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  seem  to  be  looking  into  the  future  now," 
declared  Andre*.  "  Tell  me,  what  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  'T  is  easy  enough  to  see  things  for  you,  Cap 
tain  Andre*,"  she  answered.  "  Look,"  with  a  wave 
of  her  hand  as  if  to  draw  back  a  curtain  from  be- 


A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.     143 

fore  fate's  picture  gallery.  "There  are  military 
glory  and  the  applause  of  your  king  and  country, 
and  a  brigadiership,  and,  I  do  believe,  a  baronetcy 
as  well."  She  turned  to  him  with  a  merry  laugh. 
"How  do  you  like  my  fortune-telling?"  she 
asked. 

"  You  are  a  most  delightful  sibyl,  Miss  Peggy. 
I  would  that  you  had  the  ordering  of  my  fate." 

Peggy  laughed  again,  and  Andrd  asked  her,  "  But 
what  do  you  see  for  yourself?  Pray  look  again 
into  the  future  and  tell  me  that." 

Peggy  shook  her  head.  "  Look  for  me,"  she 
said. 

"I  dare  not,"  declared  Andrd.  "I  am  afraid 
that  I  might  see  some  officious,  blue-jacketed 
colonel  looming  up  in  the  distance." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,"  responded  Peggy. 
"I  am  sure  no  blue-jacketed  colonel  would  dare 
show  his  face  when  Captain  Andrd  was  around." 

She  avoided  the  Captain's  eyes  as  she  spoke.  It 
was  rather  a  dangerous  game,  that  at  wliich  she  and 
he  were  playing.  One  never  knew  when  jesting 
might  pass  into  seriousness. 

Suddenly  she  became  interested  in  the  trees 
about  her.  "  Oh,  see  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What 
pretty  blossoms !  "  and  she  pointed  to  the  blos 
soms  in  an  apple  tree  not  far  away. 

Captain  Andrd,  like  the  true  knight-errant  whose 
costume  he  had  assumed  that  evening,  immediately 
sprang  forward  to  get  them. 


144      A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

But  Peggy  protested.  "  Nay,  do  not  try  to 
reach  them,"  she  said,  "  they  are  too  high." 

Andre",  however,  regardless  of  silken  hose  and 
satin  breeches,  had  already  swung  himself  up 
among  the  branches,  and  as  Peggy  went  and  stood 
on  the  ground  below,  a  shower  of  pink  and  white 
fragrance  fell  at  her  feet.  And  from  above, 
Andrd's  voice  came  down  to  her,  quoting  reminis- 
cently  and  as  if  to  himself,  a  verse  from  a  playful 
little  epigram  that  he  had  composed  upon  seeing 
her  one  day  among  the  branches  of  a  tree  in  the 
garden  of  Cliveden,  Peggy's  home : 

"  '  But  had  the  tree  of  knowledge  bloomed, 
Its  branches  by  such  fruit  perfumed 
As  here  enchants  my  view, 
What  mortal  Adam's  taste  could  blame, 
Who  would  not  die  to  eat  the  same, 
When  gods  might  wish  a  Chew  ? '  " 

Peggy  gathered  up  the  blossoms  that  had  fallen, 
and  looking  into  the  branches,  declared  in  soft, 
laughing  tones,  "  The  fruit  is  on  the  ground  this 
time,  Captain  Andrd.  You  must  come  down  if  you 
wish  a  Chew." 

"  Coming,"  said  Andrd.  In  his  descent  he  hung 
a  moment  upon  a  branch,  that  was  quite  high  from 
the  ground,  before  dropping.  Peggy  stood  gazing 
up  at  him,  the  blossoms  in  her  hands.  Suddenly 
his  attitude  and  his  face  as  it  shone  white  in  the 
darkness,  startled  her,  recalling  more  vividly,  even, 


A   STRAIN  FROM   THE  MISCHIANZA.     145 

than  his  song  at  supper  had  recalled,  the  dream  that 
she  had  had  concerning  him.  She  gave  a  low,  in 
voluntary  cry,  and  sank  upon  the  garden  seat,'un- 
consciously  letting  the  blossoms  fall  from  her 
hands. 

The  next  instant  Andre  was  at  her  side.  "  Miss 
Peggy  !  '  he  exclaimed,  in  profound  concern,  look 
ing  into  her  face,  and  again,  "  Miss  Peggy,  are  you 

No,  she  was  not  ill,  she  protested,  trying  to  laugh 
and  not  succeeding  very  well.  Then  something 
had  frightened  her,  Andre  queried  anxiously ;  and 
when  she  did  not  reply,  pray  what  had  frightened 
her,  he  asked.  Peggy  avoided  answering  ;  Captain 
Andre*  need  not  be  concerned  for  her,  she  said,  — 
'twas  nothing,  only  a  little  faint  turn  that  had 
passed  ;  indeed,  she  was  ready  to  return  to  the 
ball-room  now,  was  quite  rested ;  would  Captain 
Andre*  be  so  kind  as  to  conduct  her  thither.  Andre* 
gazed  at  her  wonderingly ;  he  was  her  knight,  he 
answered,  and  as  such  was  hers  to  command  in  what 
soever  way  she  pleased.  However,  neither  he  nor 
she  made  a  move  to  go. 

At  length,  after  a  long  pause,  Peggy  remarked, 
"  You  are  thinking  me  very  silly,  Captain  Andre*. 
I  have  a  mind  to  tell  you  what  frightened  me." 

She  had  regained  her  composure  and  spoke 
quietly,  looking  into  Andre's  eyes  steadily,  and  with 
a  suggestion  of  appeal  in  her  glance.  "  'T  was  that 
I  just  now  saw  something  which  reminded  me  of  a 


146     A    STRAIN   FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

dream  I  had  recently  concerning  you.  Your  friends 
tell  ine  you  are  a  rash  as  well  as  a  brave  soldier. 
Perchance  my  dream  may  serve  as  a  warning  to  you 
and  cure  you  of  your  rashness." 

She  tried  to  speak  lightly  and  playfully,  yet  she 
was  conscious  all  the  while  that  there  was  an  un 
disguised  seriousness  in  her  tone.  The  truth  was 
that,  though  not  ordinarily  a  superstitious  person, 
she  had  been  thoroughly  frightened  by  her  dream. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  make  a  jest  of  it.  She 
looked  away  from  Andre*,  who  was  still  gazing  at 
her  wonderingly  and,  it  seemed  to  her,  soothingly 
as  well.  She  supposed  he  must  observe  something 
unnatural  in  her  manner. 

"  You  are  thinking  me  very  silly,  Captain 
Andre,"  she  said  again. 

"  Nay,"  he  answered  gently,  "  I  am  thinking  that 
you  are  tired  and  nervous.  Tell  me  your  dream, 
Miss  Peggy,  't  will  lose  whatever  of  horror  it  may 
possess  for  you  when  once  it  is  told.  Do  not  be 
afraid  of  frightening  me.  I  have  no  fear  of  dreams," 
and  he  ended  with  a  reassuring  laugh. 

Peggy  was  encouraged  by  his  words  and  by  his 
voice  and  manner  as  well.  "  I  will  tell  you,"  she 
said.  "  But  remember,  the  dream  is  to  serve  as  a 
warning  to  you  and  is  to  cure  you  of  your  rash 
ness." 

Then,  with  her  hands  clasped  loosely  in  her  lap 
and  her  eyes  gazing  off  through  the  vista  of  trees 
to  the  glimpse  of  river  in  the  distance  where,  it 


"YOU    ARE    THINKING    ME    VERY    SILLY,   CAPTAIN    ANDRt." 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCIHANZA.      147 

seemed  to  her,  the  lights  on  the  river  shone  like  so 
many  fallen  stars,  she  told  her  dream. 

"  I  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  of  a  place  which  I  have 
never  seen  in  reality,  a  place  surrounded  by  woods 
and  hills,  and  near  a  river  with  cliffs  on  the  further 
shore.  I  dreamed  that  it  was  autumn  and  the 
woods  were  red  and  gold  and  there  was  a  haze  on 
the  hills.  A  great  crowd  was  assembled  in  this 
place  and  into  their  midst  came  soldiers,  soldiers  in 
blue,  bringing  with  them  a  prisoner  in  a  scarlet 
coat.  The  prisoner's  face  I  could  not  see.  I  dreamed 
that  they  hung  the  prisoner  in  the  scarlet  coat, 
while  the  waiting  crowd  stood  round,  silent  and 
pitiful.  When  all  was  over  and  I  looked  up,  I 
saw  the  face  of  the  prisoner.  Captain  Andre,  the 
face  was  yours." 

For  a  moment  after  Peggy  had  finished,  Andr£ 
did  not  speak.  She  began  to  wonder  whether  or 
not  she  had  done  right  to  tell  her  dream. 

Presently  she  heard  him  say  in  his  accustomed 
quiet  voice  and  with  a  touch  of  playful  irony,  "  T  is 
a  strange  fact,  Miss  Peggy,  that  you  are  not  the  only 
one  who  has  dreamed  of  seeing  nie  hung.  Several 
of  my  friends  have  done  the  same  for  me.  But  I 
hope  to  disappoint  their  dreams  and  yours.  I  have 
no  desire  to  die  with  the  spy's  halter  about  my  neck. 
'T  is  my  wish  to  die  in  the  press  and  storm  of  battle ; " 
and  under  his  breath  he  added,  "  In  whatever  way 
I  die,  I  trust  that  it  may  be  as  a  brave  man." 

"  Do  not  talk  of  dying,  Captain  AiidreY'  Peggy 


148     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

interrupted  hurriedly,  and  with  a  tremor  of  sub 
dued  emotion  in  her  voice  ;  "  you  make  me  repent 
that  I  did  tell  my  dream." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Peggy,  give  not  another  thought  to 
that  dream.  Who  am  I,  or  who  is  my  dream  self 
that  we  should  disturb  Miss  Peggy's  peace  of 
mind !  •'  Andr£  spoke  with  the  note  of  playful 
irony  still  in  his  voice  and  with  a  sadness,  too,  that 
seemed  to  Peggy  like  the  sadness  of  farewell. 

She  raised  her  head  and  gazed  at  him  through 
the  darkness,  questioningly,  searchingly,  fearfully. 
Was  the  dream  disturbing  him  as  it  had  disturbed 
her,  she  wondered.  Was  it  true,  what  had  been 
hinted  by  men  jealous  of  Andre's  popularity  and 
success  in  the  army,  that  he  had  run  the  risk  of 
dying  the  death  of  which  she  had  dreamed  as  com 
ing  to  him  ?  Would  he,  perchance,  run  that  same 
risk  again  ?  And  did  he  feel  the  ignominy  of  such 
a  risk,  and  was  that  the  reason  why,  with  his  proud 
spirit,  though  loving  all  women,  he  would  permit 
himself  to  love  no  one  woman  best? 

"  Captain  Andre*,"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  would  you  serve  as  a  spy  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  I  believed  that  to  do  so  was  my  duty 
and  would  gain  me  distinction  in  the  army,"  he 
answered,  simply  and  honestly. 

Peggy  continued  to  gaze  at  him  through  the 
darkness.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  horror  in  her 
glance,  for  she  was  not  without  her  share  of  the 
general  opinion  entertained  towards  spies,  and  there 


A    STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA.      149 

was  pity  too,  but  most  of  all  there  was  admiration. 
To  what  heights  or  to  what  depths  would  this 
man's  devotion  to  duty  as  a  soldier  and  his  love 
of  glory  carry  him,  she  wondered.  She  felt  that, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  acquaintance  with  him, 
she  knew  him,  and  understood  something  of  what 
his  life,  with  its  ardent  ambitions  and  daring 
ventures,  really  was.  The  Mischianza  and  the 
ladies  with  whom  he  danced,  and  even  the  lady 
whose  knight  he  was  and  whose  favor  he  wore 
over  his  heart,  were  necessarily  but  trifling  parts  of 
that  life,  she  determined. 

With  a  quickly  drawn  breath  she  rose  from  the 
garden  seat,  and  Andre*  rose  with  her. 

She  looked  away.  "  What  it  is  to  be  a  man  !  " 
she  said,  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice.  "  And  I  —  I 
can  only  dance." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  change  from  seriousness  to 
lightness,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  at  him  and 
smiling,  she  took  the  first  position  of  the  minuet,  re 
marking  with  the  {esthetic  languor  of  an  eighteenth- 
century  belle,  "  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  conduct 
me  back  to  the  ball-room,  Captain  Andre*  ?  " 

History  does  not  tell  us  what  were  the  feelings 
of  Peggy  Chew  on  that  second  day  of  October  of 
the  year  1780  when  her  dream  came  true,  and 
John  Andre*  met  his  tragic  death  on  the  russet  hill 
side  near  the  village  of  Tappan.  We  may  well 
believe  that  they  were  sorrowful. 


150     A   STRAIN  FROM  THE  MISCHIANZA. 

That  Peggy  never  ceased  to  speak  of  Andre* 
with  admiration  we  know,  and  we  know  too  that 
the  verses  and  songs  which  he  wrote  in  celebration 
of  her  charms,  and  his  account  of  the  Mischianza 
which  he  dedicated  to  her,  were  treasured  by  her 
to  her  death,  and  on  her  death  were  bequeathed  as 
precious  legacies  to  her  daughter. 

Her  daughter  ?  Yes  —  for  Peggy  married.  She 
married,  too,  a  blue-jacketed  colonel,  "the  hero  of 
Cowpens, "  just  such  a  blue-jacketed  colonel,  no 
doubt,  as  poor  Andre  had  feared  to  see  looming  up 
in  the  distance  of  Peggy's  future. 

This  blue-jacketed  colonel  husband  of  Peggy's 
was  a  patriot  of  the  patriots.  He  never  listened 
with  very  good  grace,  we  are  told,  to  Peggy's 
praises  of  Andre*.  He  could  not  forget  that  Andre* 
had  been  an  enemy  to  the  cause  for  which  he  him 
self  had  fought  and  suffered,  and  perhaps  too  he 
was  a  trifle  jealous  of  the  man  who  had  once 
tenderly  inscribed  himself,  "  Miss  Peggy's  most 
devoted  knight  and  servant." 

At  any  rate,  and  whatever  may  have  been  the 
causes  of  his  cherished  hostility,  it  is  a  tradition 
among  the  descendants  of  Peggy  and  the  Colonel 
that  whenever  these  two  were  entertaining  guests 
at  their  charming  Baltimore  home  and  Peggy  would 
fall  to  talking  of  Andre"  and  declare,  "  He  was  a, 
most  witty  and  cultivated  gentleman,"  the  Colonel 
would  interrupt  testily,  "  He  was  a  damned  spy, 
my  friends,  notli.  ag  but  a  damned  spy." 


IX. 

IN   THE   AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN. 

BREAKFAST  was  waiting.  The  pot  of  steaming 
chocolate  was  on  the  table,  and  the  bread  and 
butter,  and  the  fruits  from  the  garden.  It  was 
just  such  a  simple  repast  as  had  often  graced  the 
breakfast  table  of  the  little  farmhouse  at  Braintree, 
and  to  the  Adamses,  always  democratic  and  unas 
suming  in  their  tastes,  it  was  as  acceptable  in  their 
Grosvenor-square  mansion  as  in  that  other  less 
pretentious  dwelling. 

The  women  of  the  family,  Mrs.  Abigail  and 
Miss  Abby,  were  already  in  their  places.  They 
looked  very  fresh  and  tidy  in  their  spandy  morning 
caps  and  gowns.  Only  the  seat  at  the  head  of  the 
table  was  vacant. 

"I  wonder  what  can  be  keeping  your  father 
notv"  Mrs.  Adams  remarked.  There  was  a  note 
of  weariness  in  her  voice  which  implied  that  her 
question  was  not  a  new  one. 

"  Oh,  probably  some  '  petition,'  or  '  commission,' 
or  « private  application,' "  sighed  Abby.  "  We 
must  wait  until  they  be  served.  An  ambassador's 
family  are  ever  the  slaves  of  his  profession." 

Abby's    air   of  stoic    resignation  was  amusing. 

151 


152       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

Mrs.  Adams  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  Through 
a  long  and  rigorous  course  of  training  these  women 
had  learned  to  laugh  at  the  little  worries  and  vexa 
tions  that  assail  the  wife  and  daughter  of  a  politician. 

There  were  a  few  more  moments  of  waiting. 
Mrs.  Adams  readjusted  the  top  of  the  chocolate 
pot,  and  rearranged  the  cups  and  saucers.  Abby, 
from  her  seat  at  the  table,  gazed  out  of  the  window 
at  the  bright  October  world  without.  There  was 
a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking, 
as  she  had  often  thought  before,  how  much  the 
centre  of  Grosvenor  square,  that  open  space  op 
posite,  its  several  acres  of  sunny  greensward,  its 
spreading  trees,  and  its  umbrageous  walks,  resem 
bled  Boston  Common. 

"  Only  not  so  nice,"  she  reflected.  Abby  had  a 
great  deal  of  what  her  English  acquaintances  called 
provinciality,  but  what  her  American  friends  knew 
to  be  patriotism. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Adams 
entered,  in  his  hand  a  packet  tied  and  sealed. 
Straightway  the  breakfast  was  forgotten,  and  the 
women  made  a  rush  upon  him  with  the  glad  cry, 
"  Letters  !  Letters  from  home."  They  could  for 
give  him  fifty  times  over  for  being  late  to  breakfast, 
if  he  brought  letters  with  him. 

Mr.  Adams  was  a  tease.  He  must  needs  cut  the 
chord  and  undo  the  packet  of  letters  very  leisurely. 
"  Here  is  one  for  you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Adams,  "  and  here,  Miss  Abby,  are  three, 


IN    THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN.       153 

four,  upon  my  word,  five  for  you,  and  more  yet  for 
your  mamma.  And  where,  pray,  does  the  old  gen 
tleman  come  in  ?  I  see  he  will'  fare  but  slenderly. 
Only  one  for  me." 

Then  began  the  unsealing  and  the  reading.  The 
chocolate  grew  cold.  The  bread  and  butter  and 
the  fruit  went  untasted.  The  ceremony  of  eating 
was  quite  forgotten.  In  those  days  of  slow  travel 
ling  and  hazardous  voyages,  the  arrival  of  letters 
from  across  the  sea  was  an  event  to  make  trifles  of 
the  ordinary  customs  of  life. 

Abby  read  her  letters  in  the  order  of  preference, 
with  a  wise  forethought  that  savored  of  her  Puritan 
ancestry,  reserving  the  best  till  the  last.  The  first 
three  were  from  certain  young  lady  friends  and 
cousins  of  hers  left  behind  in  her  Braintree  home. 
They  contained  many  inquiries  about  her  health 
and  happiness,  the  latest  European  fashions,  and 
her  acquaintance  with  foreign  life  and  foreign 
customs.  When  she  returned,  she  was  informed, 
she  must  be  prepared  to  be  regarded  as  a  pattern 
in  everything.  Going  abroad  gave  one  such  con 
sequence.  How  did  she  like  the  English  ladies? 
Did  they  compare  favorably  or  unfavorably  with 
the  French  demoiselles?  Her  Braintree  friends 
were  dying  to  hear  the  particulars  of  her  presenta 
tion  at  court.  What  did  she  wear?  How  did  she 
like  their  majesties,  and  the  prince  and  princesses  ? 
In  their  fancy  they  could  see  her  making  her  rever 
ence  to  royalty.  What  of  the  fashionable  courtesy  ? 


154       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

They  had  heard  it  was  low  and  slow.  They  sup 
posed  she  had  learned  to  make  it  with  the  perfec 
tion  of  grace  and  ease.  Would  she  teach  it  to 
them  when  she  returned?  They  imagined  she 
would  laugh  most  heartily  at  their  little  bobs  and 
dodges.  They  were  certain  her  brother,  Master 
J.  Q.  A.  (whom,  by  the  way,  they  were  delighted 
to  welcome  to  his  native  shore),  had  laughed  at 
them  inwardly  though  he  was  outwardly  so  grave 
and  kind.  What  a  wonderful  young  man  her 
brother  was  !  —  so  wise,  so  talented,  so  accom 
plished,  so  altogether  superior.  They  quite  stood 
in  awe  of  him.  They  had  begged  him  to  tell 
them  when  their  dearest  Abby  would  return.  But 
the  young  man  was  non-commital.  He  had  an 
swered  them  with  a  sigh  and  a  jest,  hoping  it 
would  be  before  they  were  all  married  ladies. 
They  sincerely  hoped  that  it  would,  for  their  dear 
est  Abby  must  know  husbands  were  not  to  be  had 
in  Braintree ;  they  wanted  to  see  her  once  before 
they  died.  They  assured  her  of  their  unchanging 
love  and  loyalty,  and  they  signed  themselves  de 
votedly  hers. 

Abby  finished  the  first  three  letters  and  laid 
them  aside  with  a  fond  smile.  "  Dear  girls  !  "  she 
reflected,  with  that  na'ive  Puritanism  of  spirit 
which  was  sometimes  her  charm  and  sometimes 
her  fault,  "  they  little  realize  how  superior  is 
their  simplicity  to  the  foreign  airs  and  graces 
which  they  so  long  to  imitate." 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN.       155 

She  pictured  her  young  lady  friends  and  cousins 
surveying  her  brother  with  looks  of  admiration  and 
wonder,  noting  all  the  details  of  his  costume  from 
the  length  of  his  periwig  to  the  size  of  his  shoe 
buckles,  and  approaching  him  with  the  reverence 
due  a  young  man  who  had  travelled  and  lived  in 
foreign  lands,  who  had  visited  foreign  courts, 
libraries,  and  picture  galleries,  and  who  had  basked 
in  the  smiles  of  kings,  queens,  and  emperors. 

She  saw  her  brother  gentle  and  courteous  in 
their  midst,  yet  holding  himself  aloof  with  that 
proud  consciousness  of  superiority  which  she  knew 
must  offend  all  those  who  recognized  it.  "  I  shall 
have  to  lecture  John,"  she  determined.  "  I  feared 
his  grand  ways  might  make  the  girls  feel  ill  at  ease 
in  his  presence ;  "  and  she  opened  his  letter  with  an 
elder  sisterly  severity  of  manner,  but  with  an  eager 
ness  that  showed  she  was  a  very  proud  and  adoring 
elder  sister. 

She  had  a  treat  in  her  brother's  letter.  Like  all 
the  Adams'  letters  to  one  another,  this  particular 
letter  from  John  Quincy  to  his  sister  was  full  of 
original  comment,  interesting  detail,  and  loving 
remembrance.  It  told  of  his  return  to  their  beloved 
Massachusetts,  whither  he  had  gone  expressly  for 
the  purpose  of  finishing  his  education  in  the  college 
of  his  fathers.  He  did  not  regret,  he  said,  the  de 
cision  that  had  brought  him  home.  He  felt  as  he 
had  always  felt,  that  Harvard  was  the  one  college 
for  him ;  that  it  was  wrong  for  a  man  to  receive 


156       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

his  education  in  any  other  place  than  the  country 
where  he  was  to  live.  His  preferring  to  return 
home  had  surprised  a  number  of  his  young  ac 
quaintances  there,  more  than  it  would  probably, 
did  they  know  as  much  of  Europe  as  he  did.  He 
had  seen  their  dear  brothers.  Charles  was  coin 
ing  on  well  in  his  studies  and  Tom  was  a  good, 
industrious  little  fellow.  Their  aunt  and  uncle 
had  done  well  by  them.  He  had  paid  a  Sunday 
visit  to  Braintree  (immediately  Abby  was  there 
with  him  in  spirit)  and  had  attended  meeting  twice. 
He  would  never  have  believed  that  the  parson's 
voice,  looks,  and  manners  would  have  seemed  so 
familiar  to  him.  He  thought  while  the  man  was 
preaching  that  he  had  listened  to  him  every  Sun 
day,  without  interruption,  for  years.  As  he  looked 
round  the  meeting-house,  every  face  above  thirty 
he  knew,  but  scarcely  one  under  thirty  —  his  own 
generation  had  certainly  changed  beyond  recogni 
tion.  In  the  afternoon  he  had  been  to  take  a  look 
at  their  old  home,  the  well-remembered  farmhouse. 
As  Abby  reached  this  point  in  the  letter,  a  wave  of 
homesickness  and  longing  went  over  her.  When 
would  she  see  the  dear  old  place  again,  she  won 
dered.  Would  they  ever  all  of  them  be  gathered 
together  under  its  roof  once  more  ?  Her  brother's 
sensations  on  beholding  it  so  deserted  and  forlorn 
were  such  that  he  could  not  stay  ten  minutes  in  its 
neighborhood.  He  was  determined,  he  said,  not  to 
visit  it  again  before  the  familv's  return.  The  letter 


IX  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN.       157 

then  took  a  more  cheerful  tone.  Abby  was  in 
formed  of  the  fetings,  the  tea-drinkings,  the  dinner 
parties,  and  the  balls  with  which  he  was  welcomed 
home.  He  wrote  enthusiastically  in  praise  of  the 
scholars  and  politicians  who  entertained  him,  but 
upon  his  young  countrywomen,  the  far-famed 
belles  of  New  York  and  Boston,  he  passed  pungent 
strictures.  Oh,  that  the  women  of  his  land  were  as 
distinguished  for  the  beauty  of  their  minds  as  they 
were  for  the  charms  of  their  person !  But,  alas, 
too  many  of  them  were  like  a  handsome  apple  in 
sipid  to  the  taste.  They  thought  it  beneath  them 
to  know  anything  but  to  dance  and  to  talk  scandal. 
Complete  nonsense  was  a  word  not  expressive 
enough  of  the  insipidity  and  absurdity  that  gov 
erned  their  conversations.  Here  Abby  must  needs 
smile  at  her  brother's  severity.  "  He  writes  like  a 
graybeard,"  she  reflected  laughingly.  "  I  shall 
have  to  teach  him  to  be  more  lenient  to  the  foibles 
of  his  countrywomen."  She  was  nearing  the  end 
of  the  letter  which  dwelt  upon  his  thoughts  of  her 
and  of  their  father  and  mother.  "Compliments 
are  an  inadequate  means  of  expression  for  those  we 
love,"  he  said,  and  he  signed  himself  affectionately 
her  brother,  J.  Q.  A. 

Abby  laid  her  brother's  letter  aside  with  those 
already  read.  "  John  may  be  a  trifle  opinionated 
and  austere  like  the  rest  of  the  family,"  she  com 
mented,  "  but  he  is  a  dear  brother." 

There  still  remained  one  letter  unread,  the  best 


158       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

one,  which  she  had  reserved  for  the  last.  Oddly 
enough,  this  was  the  only  letter  that  did  not  come 
from  America.  One  would  suppose  that  so  loyal 
an  American  as  Miss  Abby  prided  herself  that  she 
was  would  have  preferred  American  news  to  for 
eign  news.  Abby  colored  at  the  thought.  "  Ah, 
but  the  letter  was  written  by  an  American,"  she 
reflected.  That  excused  her.  She  turned  the 
letter  over  and  glanced  at  her  name  and  address 
and  thought  that  they  looked  well  written  in  such 
a  large,  bold  hand.  Would  she  read  the  letter 
now  or  wait  until  she  was  alone?  She  feared 
her  mother's  saucy  tongue  and  her  father's  love  of 
teasing.  She  slipped  the  letter  in  the  waist  of  her 
gown  and  looked  askance  at  her  parents.  She  was 
half  ashamed,  half  proud  to  have  this  secret  from 
them. 

Mrs.  Adams  had  arrived  at  the  last  page  of  her 
last  letter  and  Mr.  Adams  was  reading  with  her 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  Mother,"  said  Abby,  with  prim  dignity,  "  may 
I  be  pardoned  if  I  go  now?  I  have  much  to  do 
this  morning." 

Mrs.  Adams  looked  up  from  her  letter  in  some 
surprise.  "Why,  Abby,  child,"  she  remarked, 
"  you  have  not  had  your  breakfast  yet ;  "  and  Mr. 
Adams  gave  his  daughter  a  glance  of  keen  scrutiny 
and  inquired  which  of  her  letters  had  gone  to  her 
head. 

Abby  felt  herself  grow  rosy.     She  wished  she 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       159 

had  not  been  so  precipitate;  but  she  held  up 
her  head  bravely  and  answered  pertinently  that 
it  appeared  she  was  not  the  only  one  who  had 
forgotten  breakfast  that  morning.  Whereupon 
they  all  laughed. 

Mr.  Spruce,  the  butler,  was  summoned,  the  cold 
chocolate  was  removed,  another  pot  of  steaming 
chocolate  was  brought  in,  and  breakfast  proceeded 
in  due  form. 

"Abby,"  called  her  mother,  when  at  last  the 
ceremony  of  eating  was  accomplished  and  Abby 
was  returning  to  her  room. 

Abby  paused  on  the  threshold.  Her  heart  sank. 
Was  there  to  be  another  interruption?  Would 
she  never  be  allowed  to  go  away  and  read  her  let 
ter  in  peace  ? 

"  I  shall  want  you  to  drive  into  Cheapside  with 
me  this  morning  to  visit  the  shops,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Will  you  be  ready  to  start  by  eleven  o'clock  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother,"  answered  Abby,  meekly.  Her 
heart  rose  again.  She  was  glad  that  eleven  o'clock 
was  more  than  an  hour  away. 

Abby's  room  was  on  the  east  side  of  the  house 
and  overlooked  the  garden.  She  found  it  flooded 
with  the  morning  light  and  seeming  like  what  she 
often  called  it,  her  sun-bower.  There  were  flowers 
in  the  windows  and  in  the  vases  on  the  mantel 
shelf,  and  the  chintz  with  which  the  bed  was  hung 
and  the  chairs  upholstered  was  of  a  pretty  pink  and 
white  flower  design.  The  windows  were  curtained 


160       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

and  several  fine  etchings  hung  on  the  wall,  and  over 
the  mantel  was  a  pastel  portrait  of  John  Quincy 
Adams  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  stood  a  large  table  on  which  were  books, 
writing  materials,  and  a  basket  filled  with  needle 
work.  The  room  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  young 
girl,  a  young  girl  who  loved  sunshine,  books,  pict 
ures,  needlework,  and  flowers. 

Abby  seated  herself  in  her  favorite  chair  beside 
the  window  that  looked  out  upon  the  garden,  and 
proceeded  to  open  her  letter.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the 
first  word  and  immediately  a  light,  quick  and  trans 
forming,  came  into  her  face.  Abby's  habitual  ex 
pression  had  always  been  rather  prim,  almost  severe. 
It  was  as  though  the  spirit  of  a  long  line  of  clerical 
forefathers  looked  out  of  those  serious  gray  eyes. 
To  be  sure,  the  arched  brows  gave  a  certain  piquant 
charm  and  the  smile  that  lurked  about  the  mouth 
showed  a  quaint  humor  that  could  be  gentle, 
roguish,  or  satirical  as  occasion  demanded.  Yet 
the  piquant  arch  of  the  brows  and  the  faint  smile 
were  but  parts  of  the  habitual  primness  of  expres 
sion.  Abby  was  decidedly  a  New  England  girl,  a 
daughter  of  the  Puritans,  and  the  stamp  of  her 
stern  ancestry  was  in  her  face.  Then,  however, 
under  the  spell  of  that  first  magic  word  and  those 
other  magic  words  that  came  after,  primness  and 
severity  vanished.  A  new  and  unusual  sweetness 
was  born  in  her  face,  the  sweetness  begotten  of  love. 

"Sweetheart,"  she  read,  "I  am  coming  back.     I 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN.       161 

had  almost  said  home,  for  in  my  heart  I  call  that 
home  where  you  are.  By  the  evening  of  the  day 
this  letter  reaches  you  I  shall  be  with  you.  Be  a 
little  glad  to  see  me,  I  pray  you.  I  shall  he  so  very 
glad  to  see  you.  Thou  little  Puritan,  how  art 
thou?  Art  thou  as  stern  as  ever?  Oh,  Abby,  I 
have  not  forgotten  your  many  severities  and  sar 
casms.  They  have  become  dear  to  me.  Loving 
you  as  I  do,  I  must  love  them  as  well.  And,  Abby, 
I  warn  you,  I  have  grown  brave  since  that  last 
afternoon  together  in  the  garden.  Gird  on  your 
armor  of  frowns  and  sharpen  that  formidable  weapon 
your  tongue.  You  will  have  need  of  them;  for 
there  is  coming  a  soldier  who  is  determined  to  fight 
for  the  possession  of  your  heart  as  the  knights  of 
old  fought  d  routrance,  to  the  death,  one  who  is 
always  faithfully  yours.  W.  S.  S." 

She  read  the  letter  twice,  three  times.  Then 
with  the  new  light  in  her  face  and  the  new  happi 
ness  in  her  heart  she  sat  dreaming,  looking  out  of 
her  window  into  a  world  that  seemed  to  her  new 
and  very  beautiful. 

She  had  loved  Colonel  Smith,  she  told  herself, 
almost  from  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  when, 
in  the  early  spring  of  that  same  year,  he  had  made 
his  advent  in  the  Adams'  home,  in  the  character  of 
Mr.  Adams'  secretary.  She  remembered  him  the 
evening  of  his  arrival,  tall,  dark,  and  of  an  erect, 
soldierly  bearing,  standing  in  the  hall  with  her 
father  as  she  came  down  the  stairs. 


162       IN   THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

Her  father  had  presented  him  to  her  and  the 
Colonel  had  bowed  low  over  her  hand,  remarking 
that  he  understood  he  had  usurped  her  office  (Abby 
had  been  doing  much  of  her  father's  writing  for 
him)  and  hoping  that  she  would  not  punish  him  as 
some  usurpers  had  been  punished.  She  had  as 
sured  him  that  his  head  was  safe  so  far  as  she  had 
any  power  over  it,  and  he  had  answered  with 
another  low  bow,  that  now  he  had  seen  her,  he 
realized  that 't  was  his  heart  which  was  endangered. 
Abby,  whose  Puritan  nature  always  resented  ilat- 
tery,  had  thought  this  a  rather  flippant  and  pre 
sumptuous  remark.  She  had  not  smiled,  but  had 
looked  gravely  away.  Afterwards,  however,  she 
had  excused  it,  as  she  would  excuse  a  fault  in  one 
she  loved,  by  way  of  proof  of  her  love. 

And,  as  it  had  been  with  Abby  and  the  Colonel 
at  first,  so  it  had  been  throughout  their  whole  ac 
quaintance.  She  was  continually  thinking  him 
flippant  and  presumptuous,  and  disapproving  of 
him  and  yet  as  continually  excusing  him.  She 
could  not  have  given  herself  better  proof  of  Tier 
love  for  him. 

Yes,  she  had  loved  him  from  the  first,  again 
she  told  herself.  But  he  had  never  guessed.  He 
had  thought  her  cruel  when  she  was  in  reality 
all  kindness  towards  him.  And  now  he  was  com 
ing  to  take  her  heart  by  storm.  He  did  not  know 
that  't  was  his  already.  Abby  smiled  at  the 
thought,  a  smile  that  was  a  reminiscence  of  the 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       163 

quaint  humor   that  had  always  been  hers   and  a 
suggestion  of  the  new  sweetness  as  well. 

From  her  seat  at  the  window  she  looked  down 
into  the  garden  and  thought  of  the  last  time  he  and 
she  had  been  there  together,  the  day  before  he  left 
England  on  a  mission  for  her  father  to  the  conti 
nent.  It  was  October  now.  The  leaves  were 
beginning  to  fall,  the  vines  were  a  red  mantle  on 
the  garden  wall,  and  the  only  flowers  still  blooming 
were  marigolds  and  asters.  But  Abby  did  not  see 
the  garden  as  it  was.  She  beheld  it  glowing  in  the 
glad  June  sunlight  and  exhaling  a  delicious 
summer  warmth  and  fragrance.  The  roses  and  the 
honeysuckle  were  in  bloom,  the  cherries  were  ripe, 
and  butterflies  went  by  in  golden  flashes. 

She  saw  herself  seated  on  a  rustic  bench  in  the 
shadow  of  a  cherry-tree.  Her  garden  hat  and  her 
garden  gloves  were  thrown  aside,  and  on  the 
ground  at  her  feet  was  a  basket  to  receive  the 
flowers  which  Colonel  Smith  was  gathering. 

The  labor  of  gathering  did  not  proceed  as  quickly 
as  it  might.  The  Colonel  must  needs  make  fre 
quent  pauses  to  rest  against  the  wall  and  look  at 
Abby. 

Abby  observed  his  dallying  with  apparent  dis 
pleasure.  "I  thought  you  came  into  the  garden 
to  pick  roses  for  me,  Colonel  Smith,"  she  remarked, 
severity  in  her  tone.  "  If  you  are  so  slow  I  shall 
be  forced  to  dismiss  you  and  do  the  picking  myself." 

The    Colonel   resumed   his  picking  reluctantly, 


164       JJV  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN. 

and  Abby  gave  grave  directions :  "  Longer  stems, 
if  you  please,  Colonel  Smith.  There,  that  will  do 
of  the  white  roses.  Now  you  may  begin  upon  the 
red  ones,  if  you  are  not  too  tired,"  —  the  last  was 
uttered  with  mock  compassion. 

Colonel  Smith  smiled  at  her  sarcasm,  and  sang 
as  he  tossed  the  roses  into  her  lap  and  into  the 
basket  at  her  feet.  His  voice  was  strong  and 
sweet,  the  strain  was  one  of  ardent  melody,  and 
the  words  were  those  of  the  passionate  shepherd  to 
his  love. 

Abby  listened  with  downcast  eyes.  The  song 
charmed  her.  Yet,  when  it  was  finished,  she  raised 
her  eyes  and  remarked  primly,  "  'T  is  a  foolish 
song.  None  but  a  silly  love  would  be  tempted  by 
'  ivory  tables,'  '  silver  dishes,'  '  a  cap  of  flowers,' 
and  '  a  kyrtle  of  myrtle  leaves.'  A  wise  love  would 
prefer  ordinary  wood  and  china,  straw  hats,  and 
cambric  gowns." 

The  Colonel  knit  his  brows  as  though  in  desper 
ation.  "  Oh,  that  eternal  practicality  !  "  he  sighed. 
"  It  shatters  all  my  air  castles." 

"  They  are  best  shattered,"  said  Abby.  "  Air 
castles  are  generally  unfit  places  for  habitation." 

She  picked  up  her  hat  and  gloves  preparatory  to 
departure.  But  the  Colonel  stopped  her.  He 
captured  hat  and  gloves,  and  stood  before  her,  an 
opposing  presence.  "Pray,  do  not  go  yet,"  he 
entreated.  "I  want  to  say  good-by.  Have  you 
forgotten,  Abby?  I  am  going  away  to-morrow." 


JN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       165 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  answered.  She 
looked  away,  and  when  he  hesitated  to  speak  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  in  calm  inquiry.  "I  am 
waiting  for  you  to  say  good-by,"  she  said  coolly. 

"  How  can  I  when  you  look  so  stern  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  change  my  face,  Colonel  Smith." 

"I  would  not  have  you,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
quick  ardor,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  a  despairing 
note  in  his  voice,  "  You  make  a  coward  of  me, 
Abby." 

Abby  looked  surprised  incredulity.  "I  would 
not  have  supposed  that  he  who  had  once  been  aid- 
de-camp  to  General  Washington  could  ever  be  a 
coward,"  she  said. 

"  The  English  army  was  but  a  trifle  to  you." 

Abby  smiled  at  his  wild  exaggeration.  But  his 
tone  pleased  her.  "  Am  I  so  formidable  ? "  she 
asked.  Her  eyelids  quivered,  and  her  hands  made 
a  fluttering  motion  among  the  roses  in  her  lap. 

"Very,"  he  answered,  seating  himself  beside 
her.  After  a  brief  pause  that  was  eloquent  with 
meaning,  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  up  into 
her  face.  "  Those  air  castles  that  you  so  despise, 
did  you  never  build  any  ?"  he  inquired. 

Abbv  nodded,  smiling.  "  I  am  not  always  prac 
tical,"  she  said. 

"  Is  there  a  place  for  me  in  your  air  castles  ?  " 
His  voice  came  to  her  as  though  from  a  distance, 
low  and  pleading. 

Abby  longed  to  answer  as  her  heart  prompted, 


166       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

but  the  dread  that  he  might  be  jesting  stopped  her. 
"You  have  your  own  castles  to  inhabit,"  she 
declared. 

"  Ah,  but  I  have  made  you  queen  in  all  my  air 
castles,"  came  the  response.  "  I  am  bold.  I  would 
be  king  in  yours." 

Abby  shook  her  head,  hesitatingly.  Her  eyes 
were  on  the  flowers  in  her  lap.  "  Air  castles  are 
so  easily  blown  over,"  she  rejoined.  "  You  had 
best  choose  a  more  substantial  dwelling." 

"Might  I  find  a  place  in  your  heart?  "  he  ven 
tured.  He  was  still  bending  forward,  looking  up 
with  tender  longing  into  her  face. 

Abby's  eyes  met  his.  She  was  on  the  point  of 
yielding.  But  the  old  disapproval  of  what  she 
deemed  his  flippancy  and  presumption  asserted 
itself.  She  feared  that  his  wooing,  which  had 
so  charmed  her,  was  not  quite  earnest  and  sincere. 

"You  are  overbold,"  she  said  distantly,  rising 
and  gathering  up  her  hat  and  gloves. 

There  had  been  no  more  words  between  them. 
She  had  gone  on  to  the  house  and  he  had  followed 
after,  with  the  basket  of  roses.  It  had  been  a  sad 
ending  to  a  happy  time. 

That  June  day  seemed  long  ago  now.  Abby 
did  not  like  to  think  of  the  weeks  that  followed. 
They  had  been  dreary  weeks  for  her.  She  put  all 
memory  of  them  from  her  and  lost  herself  in  a 
bright  dreamland  of  the  future. 

"  Abby,"    presently   her  mother's   voice   called 


/:V   THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       167 

from  without  the  room.  "  'T  is  half  after  ten.  I 
hope  that  you  are  dressing." 

Abby  woke  to  the  present  with  a  start  and  a 
little  laugh  for  her  own  abstraction.  She  had  quite 
forgotten  Cheapside  and  the  shops.  And,  as  she 
recollected,  she  decided  that  the  world  of  which 
they  were  a  part  was  but  a  humdrum  world  compared 
with  the  new  world  which  she  had  just  discovered. 

Paulette,  the  French  maid,  entering  the  room  a 
few  moments  later,  found  her  young  mistress  en 
gaged  at  her  toilet  and  smiling  to  herself  as  she 
dressed.  Paulette  assisted  in  the  arranging  and 
powdering  of  Miss  Abby's  hair,  in  the  putting  on 
of  her  pink  muslin  gown,  its  flounced  underskirt 
of  lutestring  and  its  kerchief  of  white  gauze,  and 
in  the  donning  of  her  black  silk  mantle  and  grace 
ful  leghorn  hat. 

Then,  when  the  costume  was  complete,  she 
stood  off  to  admire,  while  Miss  Abby  surveyed 
herself  critically  in  the  long  mirror. 

"Ah,  man  Dieu,  'tis  provoking,"  remarked  the 
little  French  woman  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

Abby  turned  quickly  from  the  mirror  to  her 
maid,  expecting  to  hear  that  there  was  something 
wrong  about  her  dress.  "  Why,  what  is  the  matter, 
Paulette  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  What  is  provoking  ?  " 

Paulette  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  dropped 
her  eyes  in  subtle  flattery.  "Mademoiselle  look 
so  pretty,  I  so  mauvaise,"  she  explained. 

Abby's  brows  knit  in  a  slight  frown  expressive 


168       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

of  her  dislike  of  idle  compliment.  "  Nonsense, 
Paulette,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  pretty." 

She  spoke  without  coquetry,  sincerely,  frankly. 
She  knew  she  was  not  pretty.  And  yet  she  was 
not  wholly  displeased  with  the  reflection  that  met 
her  gaze  in  the  long  mirror.  She  did  not  see  a 
beauty,  but  she  saw  a  high-bred  lady,  whose  costume 
represented  mode,  whose  aristocratic  air  gave  dis 
tinction,  and  whose  quaint,  interesting  face  pos 
sessed  a  charm  beyond  that  of  mere  prettiness. 
To-day  her  eyes  were  shining  and  her  cheeks  glow 
ing,  and  the  smile  would  not  leave  her  lips.  It 
was  the  new  glory  that  suffused  her  face. 

Her  mother  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  coach. 
She  rallied  Abby  for  being  so  long  at  her  toilet. 
"  But  you  look  very  fine,  my  dear,"  she  observed, 
with  an  approving  smile. 

Mrs.  Adams,  as  usual,  was  in  a  merry,  conversa 
tional  mood.  As  she  and  Abby  rolled  along  in 
their  grand  English  coach,  which  was  ever  a  source 
of  amusement  to  them  because  of  its  grandeur 
(they  had  not  been  used  to  riding  in  a  coach  in 
their  Braintree  home),  she  kept  up  an  animated 
flow  of  talk.  She  spoke  of  the  shops  and  of  what 
she  was  going  to  buy,  of  the  objects  of  interest 
along  the  way,  of  the  play  of  the  night  before,  and 
most  of  all  of  the  letters  she  had  received  that 
morning.  She  was  very  bright  and  entertaining. 
But  Abby  was  unusually  silent.  She  replied  to 
her  mother's  remarks  abstractedly  and  at  random. 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       169 

Down  Piccadilly  to  the  Strand  they,  drove  and 
along  the  Strand  to  Fleet  street,  from  Fleet  street 
over  Ludgate  Hill  and  through  St.  Paul's  church 
yard  to  Cheapside.  They  were  a  part  of  an  unend 
ing  train  of  coaches  and  of  post-chaises,  of  market 
carts  and  huge  West-country  wagons,  all  bound  for 
the  heart  of  the  great  city. 

They  passed  the  homes  of  rank  and  fashion,  long 
rows  of  stately  mansions,  the  parks,  the  play-houses, 
and  the  coffee-houses.  At  length  they  came  into 
the  enchanted  region  of  the  shops. 

Here  was  a  world  of  wonders.  Waxen  ladies  of 
ineffably  sweet  countenances  and  gentlemen  of 
luxuriant  mustachios  smiled  from  the  windows  of 
drapers'  shops  and  mercers'  shops  upon  the  pass 
ers-by,  and  by  the  magnificence  of  their  costumes 
gave  proof  of  the  excellence  of  the  linen  goods  and 
cotton  goods,  the  silks  and  satins  to  be  had  within. 
In  the  wig-maker's  windows  life-like  busts  with 
shining  glass  eyes  and  brilliantly  painted  cheeks 
wore  head-dresses  of  such  surpassing  loveliness 
that  the  whole  wig-wearing  populace  must  stop  to 
admire  and,  if  possible,  to  buy.  In  the  boot 
maker's  windows  rows  of  gentlemen's  buckled  shoes 
faced  as  many  rows  of  ladies'  high-heeled  slippers, 
the  shoes  seeming  to  invite  the  slippers  to  tread  a 
measure  of  the  minuet  with  them,  shoes  and  slip 
pers  together  in  their  unrivalled  beauty  soliciting 
the  patronage  of  all  beholders.  Little  gilded  Bac- 
chuses  perched  upon  bacchanalian  barrels  pro- 


170       IN   THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

claimed  the  wine-seller's  shops,  and  mysterious- 
looking  bottles,  red,  green,  and  yellow,  casting  a 
lurid  light,  announced  the  chemist's  shops.  There 
was  the  iron-monger's  shop,  with  his  radiant 
fenders,  andirons,  and  candlesticks ;  the  cabinet 
maker's,  with  his  French  polished  mahogany  and 
his  chintz  furniture ;  the  tobacconist's  with  his 
twisted  clay  pipes,  his  pig-tail  tobacco,  and  his 
elegant  snuff-boxes  ;  the  green-grocer's,  the  butch 
er's,  the  baker's,  the  tailor's,  the  bookseller's,  and 
the  picture  seller's,  all  variously  interesting  and 
alluring.  Some  of  the  shops  were  new  and  on  a 
level  with  the  street,  were  uniformly  numbered,  and 
boasted  sash-windows  ;  but  there  were  others,  older 
and  less  pretentious,  which  were  below  the  level  of 
the  street  and  were  approached  by  a  downward 
flight  of  steps ;  their  windows  were  many-paned, 
and,  in  place  of  a  number,  an  old  sign-board  with 
painted  symbol,  creaking  on  its  hinges,  desig 
nated  the  shop  as  that  of  "  The  Golden  Fleece " 
or  "The  Golden  Key,"  or  "The  Bible  and  the 
Crown,"  or  something  equally  incongruous  and 
charming. 

Abby's  interest  in  the  shops  had  always  been 
very  great.  They  had  seemed  to  her,  accustomed 
all  her  life  to  the  primitive  simplicity  of  a  New 
England  village,  places  of  almost  magic  fascina 
tion.  To-dajr,  however,  their  attraction  for  her 
was  something  vague  and  shadowy.  She  saw  them 
and  was  conscious  of  their  many  delights,  but  she 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       171 

did  not  give  much  heed.  She  was  preoccupied 
with  her  own  sweet  fancies. 

And  as  of  the  shops  so  of  the  throng  of  shoppers, 
Abby  was  only  partially  observant.  She  bowed 
and  smiled  quite  as  usual  to  her  acquaintances, 
English  and  American,  whom  she  chanced  to  see, 
but  if  any  of  them  stopped  beside  the  coach  to  chat 
a  moment  she  left  the  burden  of  talking  to  her 
mother.  Now  and  then,  however,  when  Mrs. 
Adams  went  into  some  shop  without  her  and  she 
was  left  alone  in  the  coach  and  was  accosted  by 
some  friendly  spirit,  she  must  needs  collect  her 
thoughts  and  converse  quite  as  though  to-day  were 
any  other  day. 

She  found  herself  composing  small-talk  with  a 
certain  Mr.  Randall,  employed  in  the  service  of 
the  American  embassy,  who  was  making  his  com 
pliments  to  her  at  the  coach  window.  A  girl  with 
a  veil  on  went  by,  and  Abby  remarked  upon  the 
custom  prevailing  abroad  of  wearing  gauze  veils. 
Mr.  Randall,  with  a  meaning  glance  at  Abby, 
observed  that  the  blush  of  innocence  was  a  better 
veil.  Abby,  true  even  in  small-talk  to  her  Puritan 
severity,  smiled  somewhat  satirically  and  said  she 
feared  there  were  few  veils  of  that  sort  worn  in 
London  and  fewer  still  in  Paris.  Mr.  Randall, 
who  was  aware  of  Abby's  former  residence  in  Paris 
and  of  her  knowledge  of  the  French  language,  in 
quired  if  they  had  any  word  in  the  French  language 
expressive  of  innocence.  Abby  replied  there  was 


172       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

only  the  one  word  "  innocence"  and  that  was  almost 
without  use  there.  Then  she  remarked  with  a 
sigh  that  she  considered  blushing  a  very  unpleasant 
sensation.  She  thought  it  would  be  to  one's  ad 
vantage  to  be  exempt  from  that  attribute  of  inno 
cence.  Mr.  Randall  declared  that  he  was  not  of 
her  opinion. 

Mrs.  Adams  returned  to  the  coach.  The  shop 
ping  was  over  for  that  day,  she  announced.  They 
were  driving  home.  If  Mr.  Randall  was  going 
their  way  they  would  be  very  glad  of  his  company. 
Mr.  Randall  was  going  their  way.  He  got  into 
the  coach  with  them,  and  as  it  was  discovered  he 
had  business  with  Mr.  Adams,  he  was  brought 
home  to  dinner  with  them. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  holding  up  a  warning 
finger  as  they  descended  from  the  coach,  "you 
must  not  bring  business  to  the  table.  It  interferes 
with  digestion." 

The  dinner  was  a  merry  one.  The  day,  accord 
ing  to  the  French  calendar,  was  le  jour  des  rois, 
and  a  pie  baked  in  its  honor  had  been  prepared  by 
the  French  cook.  Mrs.  Adams  rose  to  explain  its 
significance.  "  This  pie,  my  friends,"  she  said, 
"  contains  a  bean,  and  whoever  in  the  cutting  is 
so  lucky  as  to  obtain  the  bean,  that  one  is  dubbed 
king  or  queen." 

The  pie  was  passed  to  Abby.  She  cut,  but  got 
no  bean.  Next,  Mr.  Randall  took  his  turn,  but 
the  bean  fell  not  to  his  lot.  Mrs.  Adams  then 


AV  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN.       173 

separated  her  slice,  protesting  that  she  had  no 
cravings  for  royalty  and  was  in  no  wise  disap 
pointed  that  the  bean  came  not  to  her.  Mr.  Adams 
watched  the  division  of  the  pie  in  silence,  and  when 
the  remaining  half  was  passed  to  him  he  took  his 
knife  and,  with  a  few  bold  slashes,  dissolved  the 
poor  paste  to  crumbs.  From  the  ruins  he  picked 
out  the  bean  and  displayed  it  with  a  flourish. 
"  And  thus,"  he  cried,  "  are  kingdoms  obtained." 

All  through  dinner  Abby  joined  in  the  general 
laughing  and  talking.  Yet  she  was  conscious  all 
the  while  of  a  remoteness  from  the  others.  It  was 
that  same  feeling  of  having  entered  a  new  Avorld 
compared  with  which  the  world  of  dining,  as  the 
world  of  shopping,  was  but  humdrum. 

It  was  the  same  after  dinner  when  she  sat  in 
the  drawing-room  entertaining  callers.  The  social 
world,  she  decided,  was  even  more  humdrum  than 
the  worlds  of  dining  and  shopping. 

The  conversation  that  Avas  going  on  about  her 
seemed  to  her  more  than  usually  stupid.  In  one 
part  of  the  room  her  mother  was  discussing  politics 
with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jebb,  English  people  who  pos 
sessed  a  profound  admiration  for  America.  Abby 
heard  them,  wondering  as  usual  at  her  mother's 
absorbing  interest  in  politics.  She  had  not  in 
herited  that  interest.  In  another  part  of  the  room 
her  father,  with  his  hands  locked  behind  him,  stood 
surveying  the  new  portrait  of  himself  by  Copley. 
He  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  it,  he  was  inform- 


174       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

ing  the  gentleman  at  his  side,  but  'twas  the  best 
that  had  ever  been  taken  of  him.  No  artist  had 
yet  succeeded  in  catching  his  character.  The 
ruling  traits  in  his  character  were  candor,  probity, 
and  decision,  but  no  one  would  suppose  so  to 
judge  from  any  of  his  portraits.  Abby  caught 
enough  of  what  he  was  saying  to  wish  that  he 
would  stop.  She  hated  to  have  her  father  talk  in 
that  pompous  fashion  about  himself.  She  realized 
that  people  criticised  him  for  doing  so,  and  she 
who  knew  what  was  best  in  him  could  not  endure 
to  have  him  criticised  for  what  was  worst. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  the  question  which 
was  being  put  to  her  by  a  certain  Miss  Bancroft, 
a  somewhat  supercilious  young  English-woman 
whose  patronizing  ways  always  aggravated  Abby, 
"  I  like  England  very  well." 

"  You  ought  to  like  it,"  declared  Miss  Bancroft 
with  smiling  condescension,  "for  't  is  very  evi 
dent  that  England  likes  you,"  and  then,  in  almost 
the  same  breath,  "  Which  do  you  like  best,  England 
or  France  ?  " 

This  was  an  interrogation  to  which  Abby  would 
never  respond,  though  it  had  been  asked  of  her  every 
day  since  her  arrival  in  England.  She  used  to 
laugh  in  her  sleeve  at  the  very  apparent  jealousy 
existing  between  the  two  countries,  observing  that 
the  English  sought  ever  to  imitate  the  French  as  the 
French  to  imitate  the  English. 

She  replied  to  the  question  now  as  always  with  a 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       175 

degree  of  tact  surprising  in  one  of  her  candid  charac 
ter.  "  I  really  cannot  give  the  preference  to  either," 
she  said.  "  They  are  both  charming  countries." 

Then,  "Of  course  you  prefer  England  to 
America,"  declared  Miss  Bancroft,  more  as  though 
she  were  stating  a  fact  than  as  though  she  were 
making  an  inquiry. 

At  this  Abby  forgot  diplomacy.  Her  patriotism 
was  roused.  "  I  must  confess  that  I  do  not,"  she 
said  sturdily. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Bancroft  with 
a  glance  of  incredulity  from  under  arched  eyebrows. 
"But  certainly  you  must  find  a  great  difference 
between  America  and  this  country  ?  " 

"In  what,  pray?"  inquired  Abby,  putting  on 
her  armor  of  primness  and  severity. 

"Why,  in  the  people,  their  manners,  customs, 
behavior  —  in  everything."  Miss  Bancroft  ended 
with  a  nervous  little  laugh  as  though  she  were  a 
trifle  frightened  by  Abby's  stern  expression. 

"  Indeed,  there  is  no  great  difference,"  retorted 
Abby.  "  We  have,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  as 
much  civility,  culture,  and  refinement  as  the  Eng 
lish  ;  and  our  middle  and  lower  classes  are  infinitely 
superior  to  yours." 

Abby  certainly  had  something  of  her  father's 
courage.  It  quite  routed  her  English  adversary, 
who  was  glad  to  take  ,,,refuge  in  talk  of  a  less 
dangerous  character. 

Some  one  in  the  company  reminded  them  of  Sir 


176       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S   GARDEN. 

Charles  Grandison,  and  they  entered  upon  a  lively 
discussion  of  Richardson's  novel  of  that  name. 
After  they  had  praised  the  novel  they  praised  the 
author.  Richardson  certainly  had  a  perfect  knowl 
edge  of  the  human  heart,  they  decided,  and  Mrs. 
Siddons,  they  agreed,  was  not  far  behind  him  in 
that  knowledge.  They  had  both  been  to  the  play 
the  night  before  to  see  the  celebrated  actress  in 
"Othello."  She  was  "inimitable,"  "incompar 
able."  Their  rhapsodies  over  her  (even  so  severe 
a  critic  as  Abby  could  rhapsodize  over  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons)  only  ended  with  Miss  Bancroft's  departure. 

Abby  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief  as  the  door  closed 
upon  the  last  caller.  She  glanced  at  the  tall  clock 
in  the  hall.  It  was  already  six.  In  two  hours,  or  a 
very  little  more,  Colonel  Smith  would  be  there.  Her 
spirits  rose  with  the  thought.  A  sudden  gayety, 
quite  foreign  to  her  nature,  possessed  her. 

At  the  tea  table. her  father  observed  that  she  was 
unusually  merry.  "  What  makes  you  so  happy, 
Miss  Abby  ?  "  he  inquired  playfully. 

Abby  did  not  know,  she  said.  She  thought  it 
might  be  the  letter  she  had  received  that  morning 
from  her  brother.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  her  tea-cup 
and  the  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks.  She  had 
never  been  so  artful  never. 

Her  mother  and  father  glanced  at  her  suspiciously 
and  then  exchanged  looks  of  amused  understand 
ing.  It  was  just  possible  that  Abby's  artfulness 
had  betrayed  her. 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       177 

That  evening,  after  tea,  they  were  all  assembled 
in  the  drawing-room.  Mr.  Adams,  seated  in  his 
easy  chair  on  one  side  of  the  table,  was  reading 
Plato's  Laws  ;  Mrs.  Adams  in  her  easy  chair  on  the 
other  side  was  industriously  writing  letters  ;  and 
Abby  on  a  low  hassock  at  her  mother's  feet  was 
busy  with  her  needlework.  She  was  wearing  the 
pink  muslin  gown  of  the  morning,  with  a  gauze  cap 
and  apron  to  match  the  gauze  kerchief.  As  she 
bent  over  her  work  the  new  sweetness  was  very 
visible  in  her  face. 

The  door  opened  and  Colonel  Smith  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  There  was  a  general  expression  of 
surprise  at  his  arrival  —  and  yet  no  one  was  really 
surprised,  certainly  not  Abby. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Adams  were  warmly  cordial  hi 
their  welcome.  But,  with  the  exception  of  one 
quick  smile  of  recognition,  Abby  took  no  part  in 
the  greeting.  She  was  silent  during  the  discussion 
of  politics  and  public  affairs  that  went  on  between 
her  parents  and  Colonel  Smith.  And  when  her 
father  began  to  talk  private  matters  with  the  Col 
onel,  she  stole  out  upon  the  balcony  that  over 
looked  the  garden. 

The  night  was  mild,  almost  like  one  in  June. 
The  soft  air  cooled  her  hot  cheeks  and  the  light  of 
the  stars  calmed  her.  She  could  not  have  stayed 
in  the  room  a  moment  longer,  she  told  herself. 
She  had  feared,  every  time  that  she  felt  the  Colonel's 
gaze  resting  upon  her,  that  her  face  would  betray  her 


178       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

secret.  And  she  did  not  wish  to  betray  her  secret, 
not  yet,  not  there  in  the  room  with  the  others. 

She  rested  her  hand  upon  the  balcony's  rail  and 
looked  off  into  the  night.  She  saw  not  only  the 
quiet  glitter  of  the  stars.  She  saw  the  restless 
glitter  of  the  torchlit  city  and  the  shapes  of  mighty 
buildings  towering  dark  and  dim  against  the  sky. 
And  she  heard  a  confusion  of  sounds,  shouting  and 
calling,  and  the  rumbling  of  coaches  and  of  heavy 
wagons,  sounds  that  fell  upon  her  listening  ear  as 
one  loud,  insistent  voice,  the  voice  of  a  great  city. 

Then  she  looked  down  into  the  garden  lying  so 
restful,  so  peaceful,  so  sweet  in  the  heart  of  that 
great  city,  and  she  thought  thus  the  soul  may  build 
a  garden  for  itself  apart  from  the  glare  and  noise  of 
the  world,  a  garden  where  rest  and  peace  and 
sweetness  may  be  found.  Her  first  peep  had  told 
her  that  the  garden  of  love  was  very  beautiful. 
She  would  not  hesitate  to  enter  there. 

In  the  room  behind  her  they  had  come  again  to 
politics  and  were  discussing  the  proposed  bill  which 
was  to  provide  for  free  ports  in  the  West  Indies. 
By  the  sound  of  the  Colonel's  voice,  Abby  could 
tell  that  he  had  turned  toward  the  door,  through 
which  she  had  come  to  the  balcony. 

At  length  she  heard  her  mother  say  with  a  laugh 
ing  note  in  her  voice,  "Do  not  let  us  keep  you, 
Colonel  Smith,  if  you  are  impatient  to  pay  your 
respects  —  to  the  stars ;  "  and  then  his  answer  with 
a  deep  echo  of  the  laughing  note,  "  Well,  to  tell 


"YOU    FIND    ME    A    HARD    CONQUEST,    SIR    KNIGHT." 


IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN.       179 

you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Adams,  I  am  rather  impatient 
to  pay  my  respects  —  to  the  stars." 

It  appeared  that  this  was  the  opportunity  for 
which  he  had  been  waiting.  A  moment  later  he 
was  standing  on  the  balcony  beside  her.  She  had 
not  turned  at  his  coming  and  he  said  with  bold 
pleading  in  his  tone,  "  Have  you  no  word  of  wel 
come  for  me,  Abby  ?  " 

She  let  the  hand  that  he  had  bent  to  kiss  rest  a 
moment  in  his  clasp.  "  You  are  welcome,  Colonel 
Smith,"  she  said  quietly,  primly. 

"  How  sweet  that  one  brief  sentence  sounds, 
spoken  in  your  voice!"  he  declared.  "I  would 
travel  further  than  I  have  to  hear  it." 

She  began  to  question  him  about  his  journey,  but 
he  interrupted.  He  would  have  no  dallying.  "  Did 
you  get  my  letter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Were  you  angry  at  it  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Or  at  me  ?  " 

"No." 

Her  hand  had  dropped  from  his  clasp,  and  lay 
hidden  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  gown,  and  her  face 
was  still  in  shadow.  But  the  quick  rising  and  fall 
ing  of  her  bosom  stirred  the  white  kerchief  at  her 
throat  into  an  unusual  tremor.  Colonel  Smith 
would  see  in  a  moment,  he  would  guess  her  secret.  • 
Already  he  was  looking  at  her  with  a  longing  that 
was  almost  understanding. 


180       IN  THE  AMBASSADOR'S  GARDEN. 

"  These  brief  monosyllables,"  he  asked,  "  what  do 
they  mean,  and  the  new  note  in  your  voice  ?  " 

She  turned  quickly  from  the  shadow  to  the 
brightness  from  the  open  door.  The  poise  of  her 
head  was  proud,  but  her  face  was  all  aglow  with 
the  new  glory. 

"  Abby !  sweetheart ! "  was  all  that  he  could 
stammer  in  the  first  transport  of  his  happiness. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  tall,  dark  soldier  stand 
ing  so  far  above  her,  bronzed  by  his  seven  years  of 
service  in  her  country's  war.  A  faint  smile  was 
on  her  lips  and  the  love-light  shining  in  her  eyes, 
as  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  sarcasm,  "  You 
find  me  a  hard  conquest,  Sir  Knight." 

Abby  never  had  cause  to  regret  her  choice  of 
knight.  To  the  end  Captain  Smith  remained  to 
her  a  knight  like  Bayard  of  old,  without  fear  and 
without  reproach,  devoted  and  true.  Abby's  life 
as  his  lady  was  a  happy  life.  To  be  sure,  her  house 
in  New  York  was  quite  like  other  New  York  houses  ; 
she  went  to  dinner  parties,  receptions,  and  balls  like 
other  New  York  ladies  ;  and  like  them  had  her  house 
keeping  and  her  children  to  engage  her  attentions. 
Extrinsically  her  life  was  as  prosaic  as  her  name, 
Mrs.  Smith.  But  intrinsically  her  life  was  a  poem. 
The  garden  that  her  soul  had  builded  for  itself  apart 
from  the  glare  and  noise  of  the  world  never  ceased 
to  bloom  for  her.  Abby  walked  among  its  flowers, 
and  in  sunshine  and  in  shadow  she  found  it  fair. 


